THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

P.  ^ennox  Tierney 


BEATRICE  HALLAM. 


NotieL 


AUTHOR     OF 

"SURRY     OF    EAGLES    NEST,"     "MOHUN,"     "HILT 
TO   HILT,"  ETC.,   ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 

COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BT 

G.    W.   Dillingham,   Publisher^ 

SUCCESSOR  TO  G.  W.  CARLETON  &  Co. 
MDCCCXCII. 


BEATRICE  HALLAM. 


PROLOGUE 


THE  memories  of  men  are  full  of  old  romances :  but  thej 
will  not  speak — our  skalds.  King  Arthur  lies  still  woundee 
grievously,  in  the  far  island  valley  of  Avilyon :  Lord  OdiL. 
in  the  misty  death  realm :  Balder  the  Beautiful,  sought  long 
by  great  Herrnoder,  lives  beyond  Hela's  portals,  and  will 
bless  his  people  some  day  when  he  comes.  But  when? 
King  Arthur  ever  is  to  come :  Odin  will  one  day  wind  his 
horn  and  clash  his  wild  barbaric  cymbals  through  the  Nord- 
land  pines  as  he  returns,  but  not  in  our  generation  :  Balder 
will  rise  from  sleep  and  shine  again  the  white  sun  god  on 
his  world.  But  always  these  things  will  be  :  Arthur  and 
the  rest  are  meanwhile  sleeping. 

Romance  is  history  :  the  illustration  may  be  lame — the 
truth  is  melancholy.  Because  the  men  whose  memories 
hold  this  history  will  not  speak,  it  dies  away  with  them  :  the 
great  past  goes  deeper  and  deeper  into  mist :  becomes  finally 
a  dying  strain  of  music,  and  is  no  more  remembered  forever. 

Thinking  these  thoughts  I  have  thought  it  well  to  set 
down  here  some  incidents  which  took  place  on  Virginia  soil 
and  in  which  an  ancestor  of  my  family  had  no  small  part 
to  write  my  family  romance  in  a  single  word,  uad  alsct 
though  following  a  connecting  thread,  a  leading  idea,  to 
speak  briefly  of  the  period  to  which  these  memories,  as  I  may 
call  them,  do  attach. 

That  period  was  very  picturesque  :  illustrated  and 
adorned,  as  it  surely  was,  by  such  figures  as  one  seldom  sees 
now  on  the  earth.  Often  in  my  evening  reveries,  assisted 
by  the  partial  gloom  resulting  from  the  struggles  of  the 
darkness  and  the  dying  firelight,  I  endeavor,  and  not  wholly 
without  success,  to  summon  from  their  sleep  these  stalwart 


16  AN    INTERIOR    WITH    PORTRAITS. 

cavaliers,  and  tender,  graceful  dames  of  the  far  past.  They 
rise  before  me  and  glide  onward — manly  faces,  with  clear 
eyes  and  lofty  brows,  and  firm  lips  covered  with  the  knightly 
fringe  :  soft,  tender  faces,  with  bright  eyes  and  gracious 
smiles  and  winning  gestures ;  all  the  life  and  splendor  of  the 
past  again  becomes  incarnate  !  How  plain  the  embroidered 
doublet,  and  the  sword-belt,  and  the  powdered  hair,  and  hat 
adorned  with  its  wide  floating  feather  !  How  real  are  the 
ruffled  breasts  and  hands,  the  long-flapped  waistcoats,  and 
the  buckled  shoes  !  And  then  the  fairer  forms  :  they  come 
as  plainly  with  their  looped-back  gowns  all  glittering  with 
gold  and  silver  flowers,  and  on  their  heads  great  masses  of 
curls  with  pearls  interwoven  !  See  the  gracious  smiles  and 
musical  movement — all  the  graces  which  made  those  dead 
dames  so  attractive  to  the  outward  eye — as  their  pure  faith 
ful  natures  made  them  priceless  to  the  eyes  of  the  heart. 

CHAPTER  L 

AN  DPTESIOB  WITH  PORTRAITS, 

ON  a  splendid  October  afternoon,  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1763,  two  persons  who  will  appear  frequently  in  this 
history  were  seated  in  the  great  dining-room  of  EfEngham 
Hall. 

But  let  us  first  Ray  a  few  words  of  this  old  mansion. 
Effingham  Hall  was  a  stately  edifice  not  far  from  Williams- 
burg,  which,  as  every  body  knows,  was  at  that  period  the  capi 
tal  city  of  the  colony  of  Virginia.  The  hall  was  constructed  of 
elegant  brick  brought  over  from  England  :  and  from  the 
great  portico  in  front  of  the  building  a  beautiful  rolling 
country  of  hills  and  valleys,  field  and  forest,  spread  itself 
pleasantly  before  the  eye,  bounded  far  off  along  the  circling 
belt  of  woods  by  the  bright  waters  of  the  noble  river. 

Entering  the  large  hall  of  the  old  house,  you  had  before 
you,  walls  covered  with  deers'  antlers,  fishing-rods,  and  guw  : 
portraits  of  cavaliers,  and  dames  and  children  :  even  carefu 
ly  painted  pictures  of  celebrated  race-horses,  on  whose  spe« 
and  bottom  many  thousands  of  pounds  had  been  staked  an 
lost  and  won  in  their  day  and  generation. 


AN   INTERIOR    WITH    PORTRAITS.  IT 

On  one  side  of  the  hall  a  broad  staircase  with  taken  ba 
lustrade  led  to  the  numerous  apartments  above  :  and  on  the 
opposite  side,  a  door  gave  entrance  into  the  great  dining 
room. 

The  dining-room  was  decorated  with  great  elegance : — 
the  carved  oak  wainscot  extending  above  the  mantelpiece  in 
an  unbroken  expanse  of  fruits  and  flowers,  hideous  laughing 
faces,  and  long  foamy  surges  to  the  cornice.  The  furniture 
was  in  the  Louis  Quatorze  style,  which  the  reader  is  familiar 
with,  from  its  reproduction  in  our  own  day  ;  and  the  chairs 
were  the  same  low- seated  affairs,  with  high  carved  backs, 
which  are  now  seen.  There  were  Chelsea  figures,  and  a  side 
board  full  of  plate,  and  a  Japan  cabinet,  and  a  Kiddermin 
ster  carpet,  and  huge  andirons.  On  the  andirons  crackled  a 
few  twigs  lost  in  the  great  country  fireplace. 

On  the  wall  hung  a  dozen  pictures  of  gay  gallants,  brave 
warriors,  and  dames,  whose  eyes  outshone  their  diamonds : — 
and  more  than  one  ancestor  looked  grimly  down,  clad  in  cui 
rass  and  armlets,  and  holding  in  his  mailed  hand  the  sword 
which  had  done  bloody  service  in  its  time.  The  lady  por 
traits,  as  an  invariable  rule,  were  decorated  with  sunset 
clouds  of  yellow  lace — the  bright  locks  were  powdered,  and 
many  little  black  patches  set  off  the  dazzling  fairness  of  the 
rounded  chins.  Lapdogs  nestled  on  the  satin  laps  :  and  not 
one  of  the  gay  dames  but  seemed  to  be  smiling,  with  her  head 
bent  sidewise  fascinatingly  on  the  courtly  or  warlike  figures 
ranged  with  them  in  a  long  glittering  line. 

These  portraits  are  worth  looking  up  to,  but  those  which 
we  promised  the  reader  are  real. 

In  one  of  the  carved  chairs,  if  any  thing  more  uncom 
fortable  than  all  the  rest,  sits,  or  rather  lounges,  a  young 
man  of  about  twenty-five.  He  is  very  richly  clad,  and  in  a 
costume  which  would  be  apt  to  attract  a  large  share  of  at 
tention  in  our  own  day,  when  dress  seems  to  have  become  a 
mere  covering,  and  the  prosaic  tendencies  of  the  age  are  to 
despise  every  thing  but  what  ministers  to  actual  material 
pleasure. 

The  gentleman  before  us  lives  fortunately  one  hundred 
years  before  our  day  :  and  suffers  from  an  opposite  tenden 
cy  in  costume.  His  head  is  covered  with  a  long  flowing  pe 
ruke,  heavy  with  powder,  and  the  drop  curls  hang  down  OB 


18  AW   TNTBRIOE   WITH    PORTRAITS. 

his  cheeks  ambrosially  :  his  cheeks  are  delicately  rouged, 
and  two  patches,  arranged  with  matchless  art,  complete  the 
distinguished  tout  ensemble  of  the  handsome  face.  At 
breast,  a  cloud  of  lace  reposes  on  the  rich  embroidery  of  his 
figured  satin  waistcoat,  reaching  to  his  knees  : — this  lace  is 
voint  de  Venise  and  white,  that  fashion  having  come  in  just 
one  month  since.  The  sleeves  of  his  rich  doublet  are  turned 
back  to  his  elbows,  and  are  as  large  as  a  bushel — the  opening 
being  filled  up,  however,  with  long  ruffles,  which  reach  down 
over  the  delicate  jewelled  hand.  He  wears  silk  stockings  of 
spotless  white,  and  his  feet  are  cased  in  slippers  of  Spanish 
leather,  adorned  with  diamond  buckles.  Add  velvet  garters 
below  the  knee  : — a  little  muff  of  leopard  skin  reposing  near 
at  hand  upon  a  chair — not  omitting  a  snuff-box  peeping  from 
the  pocket,  and  Mr.  Champ  Effingham,  just  from  Oxford  and 
his  grand  tour,  is  before  you  with  his  various  surroundings. 

He  is  reading  the  work  which  some  time  since  attained 
to  such  extreme  popularity,  Mr.  Joseph  Addison's  serial, 
"  The  Spectator,"— collected  now  for  its  great  merits,  into 
bound  volumes.  Mr.  Effingham  reads  with  a  languid  air, 
just  as  he  sits,  and  turns  over  the  leaves  with  an  ivory  paper 
cutter,  which  he  brought  from  Venice  with  the  plate  glass 
yonder  on  the  sideboard  near  the  silver  baskets  and  pitch 
ers.  This  languor  is  too  perfect  to  be  wholly  affected,  and 
when  he  yawns,  as  he  does  frequently,  Mr.  Effingham  applies 
himself  to  that  task  very  earnestly. 

In  one  of  these  paroxysms  of  weariness  the  volume  slips 
from  his  hand  to  the  floor. 

"  My  book,"  he  says  to  a  negro  boy,  who  has  just  brought 
in  some  dishes.  The  boy  hastens  respectfully  to  obey — 
crossing  the  whole  width  of  the  room  for  that  purpose.  Mr. 
Effingham  then  continues  reading. 

Now  for  the  other  occupant  of  the  apartment.  She  sits  near 
the  open  window,  looking  out  upon  the  lawn  and  breathing 
the  pure  delicious  air  of  October  as  she  works.  She  is  clad 
in  the  usual  child's  costume  of  the  period  (she  is  only  eleven 
or  twelve),  namely,  a  sort  of  half  coat,  half  frock,  reaching 
•carcely  below  the  knees ;  an  embroidered  undervest ;  scar 
let  silk  stockings  with  golden  clocks,  and  little  resetted  shoes 
with  high  red  heels.  Her  hair  is  unpowdered,  and  hangs  in 
juris  upon  her  neck  and  bare  shoulders.  Her  little  fingeri 


A    SERIES    OF    CATASTROPHES.  19 

we  busily  at  work  upon  a  piece  of  embroidery  which  repre 
sents  or  is  to  represent  a  white  water  dog  upon  an  intensely 
emeraid  back-ground,  and  she  addresses  herself  to  this  occu 
pation  with  a  business  air  which  is  irresistibly  amusing,  and 
no  less  pleasant  to  behold.  There  is  about  the  child,  in  her 
movements,  attitude,  expression,  every  thing,  a  freshness  and 
innocence  which  is  only  possessed  by  children.  This  is  Miss 
Kate  Effingham,  whose  parents  died  in  her  infancy,  for  which 
reason  the  little  sunbeam  was  taken  by  the  squire,  her  father's 
brother. 

Kate  seems  delighted  with  the  progress  she  has  made  in 
Jelineating  Carlo,  as  she  calls  him,  and  pauses  a  moment  to 
survey  her  brilliant  handiwork.  She  then  opens  her  ivory 
decorated  work-box  to  select  another  shade  of  silk,  holding 
it  on  her  lap  by  the  low-silled  open  window. 

But  disastrous  event !  Just  as  she  had  found  what  she 
wanted,  just  as  she  had  procured  the  exact  shade  for  Carlo's 
ears,  just  as  she  closed  the  pretty  box,  full  of  all  manner  of 
little  elegant  instruments  of  needle-work — she  heard  an  im 
patient  exclamation  of  weariness  and  disdain,  something  flut 
tered  through  the  air,  and  this  something  striking  the  hand 
some  box  delicately  balanced  on  Kate's  knees,  precipitated 
it,  with  its  whole  contents,  through  the  window  to  the  lawn 
beneath. 

The  explanation  of  this  sudden  event  is,  that  Mr.  Effing- 
ham  has  become  tired  of  the  "  Spectator,"  hurled  it  sidewise 
from  him  without  looking ;  and  thus  the  volume  has,  after 
its  habit,  produced  a  decided  sensation,  throwing  the  work- 
box  upon  the  lawn,  and  Kate  into  utter  despair. 


•*• 


CHAPTER    II. 

A  SERIES  OF  OATA8TEOPHE8,  ENDING  IN  A  FAMILY  TABLEAU. 

KATE,  spite  of  her  great  age  and  near  approach  to  woman* 
hood,  is  almost  ready  to  cry: 

"  Oh  cousin  Chamo  1 "  she  says,  '  'now  could  you  1 " 


20  A    SERIES    OP    CAlASTROPHES. 

Mr.  Effingham  yawns. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  me,  Katy  ?  "  he  says  languidly. 

"  Yes  I" 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  You've  ruined  my  work-box  1 " 

« I !  " 

"  Yes,  you  knocked  it  out  of  the  window  with  your  book 
— and  I  think  it  was  not  kind,"  Kate  says,  pouting,  and 
leaning  out  of  the  window  to  gaze  at  the  prostrate  work-box. 

Mr.  Effingham  sees  the  catastrophe  at  a  glance,  and  ap 
parently  smitten  with  remorse,  tries  to  ascertain  the  extent 
of  the  injury.  But  the  morning  seems  an  unlucky  one  for 
him.  As  he  places  his  heel  upon  the  carpet,  he  unfortunately 
treads  with  his  whole  weight  upon  the  long  silky  ear  of  his 
sister's  favorite  lapdog  Orauge,  who  is  about  the  size  of  the 
fruit  from  which  he  takes  his  name. 

Orange  utters  a  yell  sufficiently  loud  to  arouse  from 
their  sleep  the  seven  champions  of  Christendom. 

Drawn  by  his  successive  yells,  a  lady  appears  at  the  door 
and  enters  the  apartment  hurriedly. 

Miss  Alethea,  only  sister  of  Mr.  Effingham,  is  a  lady  of 
about  thirty,  with  a  clear  complexion,  serene  eyes,  her  hair 
trained  back  into  a  tower ;  and  with  an  extremely  stately 
and  dignified  expression.  She  looks  like  the  president  of  a 
benevolent  society,  and  the  very  sight  of  her  erect  head,  the 
very  rustle  of  her  black  silk  dress  has  been  known  to  strike 
terror  into  evil-doers. 

"  Who  has  hurt  Orange  ?  "  she  says,  severely ;  "  here,  poor 
fellow  ! — some  one  has  hurt  him  I " 

Orange  yells  much  louder,  seeing  his  defender. 

"  V'hat  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  him,  Champ  ?  " 
•he  Bays ;  "  please  answer  me  1 " 

Mr.  Effingham  regales  his  nostrils  with  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  replies  indifferently  : 

"  Probably  Orange  has  an  indigestion,  or  perhaps  he  is 
uttering  those  horrible  sounds  because  I  stepped  upon  his 
ear." 

"  Stepped  on  his  ear !  " 

Mr.  Effingham  nods  serenely. 

"  Keally,  you  are  too  careless !"  Miss  Alethea  exclaims, 
and  her  black  silk  rustling,  she  goes  to  Orange  and  take« 
him  in  her  arms. 


A    SERIES    OP    CATASTROPHES.  2 1 

But  in  brushing  by  Mr.  Effingham  her  ample  sleeve 
chances  to  strike  that  gentleman's  snuff-box,  and  the  contents 
of  the  useful  article  are  discharged  over  little  Kate,  who 
coughing,  sneezing,  crying  and  laughing,  perfects  the  scene. 

"  See  what  you  have  done,  Alethea  !"  says  Mr.  Effingham, 
reproachfully,  and  yawning  as  he  speaks ;  "  you  have  thrown 
my  snuff  upon  Kate." 

And  turning  to  the  child  : 

"  Never  mind,  Kate  !  "  he  says,  "  it's  excellent  snuff.  It 
won't  hurt  you — now  don't — " 

With  such  observations  Mr.  Effingham  is  quieting  the 
child,  when  another  addition  is  made  to  the  company. 

This  is  in  the  person  of  a  young  gentleman  of  thirteen 
or  fourteen — Master  Willie  Effingham,  Mr.  Champ's  brother, 
aad  a  devoted  admirer  of  Kate. 

Will,  seeing  his  sweetheart  in  tears,  bustles  up,  upon  his 
little  resetted  shoes,  flirting  his  little  round-skirted  coat,  and 
fiercely  demands  of  the  company  at  large  : 

"  Who  made  Kate  cry  !  " 

"  Oh,  the  snuff !  the  snuff ! "  says  Kate,  crying  and 
laughing. 

"  Whose  snuff!  "  says  Will,  indignantly. 

"  Mine,"  replies  Mr.  Effingham ;  "  there  are  no  excuses 
to  be  made ;  arrange  the  terms  of  the  combat." 

"  For  shame,  Champ  !  "  says  Miss  Alethea,  with  stately 
dignity ;  "  you  jest  at  Willie,  but  I  think  his  behavior  very 
honorable." 

"  Ah  1 "  you  are  an  advocate  of  duelling,  then,  my  dear 
madam  ?  "  drawls  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  No,  I  am  not ;  but  your  snuff  made  Kate  cry." 

"  Deign  to  recall  the  slight  circumstance  that  your  sleeve 
discharged  it  from  my  hand." 

"  Never  mind,  I  think  Will  right." 

Will  raises  his  head  proudly. 

"  Kate  is  his  favorite  and  playmate — " 

"  As  Orange  is  yours,"  says  Mr.  Effingham,  languidly, 
the  lapdog  having  uttered  an  expiring  howl.  "  Well,  wells 
don't  let  us  argue  ;  I  am  ready  to  make  the  amende  to  my 
little  Kate — we  are  all  dear  to  each  other — so  here  is  my 
lace  handkerchief,  ma  mignonette,  to  wipe  away  the  snuff—1' 

Kate  laughs. 


22  A   SERIES   Of   CATASTROPHES. 

'  And  here's  a  kiss,  to  make  friends  for  the  snuff  and  tha 
work  box." 

Kate  wrung  her  hands,  and  says,  laughing  and  pouting  • 
"  Oh  my  box  !  my  box  1" 

"  Your  box  1 "  says  Will,  who  has  been  looking  daggers 
at  Mr.  Effingham  for  kissing  the  child. 

"  Yes !  my  poor  box  1 " 

"  Never  mind,  Katy,"  says  Mr.  Effingham,  smiling  as 
he  passes  his  hand  caressingly  over  the  little  head ;  "  I  un 
fortunately  broke  it,  but  you  shall  have  one  twice  as  hand 
some  ;  I  saw  one  in  Williamsburg  yesterday,  which  I  thought 
of  getting  for  Clare  Lee — but  you  shall  have  it." 

"  Oh,  thankee ! "  cries  Kate,  "  but  I  oughtn't  to  take 
cousin  Clare's,  you  know  1  And  there's  papa  1  he's  got  my 
box  I" 

Kate  springs  forward  to  meet  the  squire — the  head  ef 
the  house — who  enters  at  the  door. 

The  squire  is  a  gentleman  of  fifty-five  or  sixty,  with  an 
open  frank  face,  clear,  honest  eyes,  and  his  carriage  is  bold, 
free,  and  somewhat  pompous.  He  is  clad  much  more  simply 
than  his  eldest  son,  his. coat  having  upon  it  not  a  particle  of 
embroidery,  and  his  long  plain  waistcoat  buttoning  up  to  the 
chin :  below  which  a  white  cravat  and  an  indication  only 
of  frill  are  visible.  His  limbs  are  cased  in  thick,  strong  and 
comfortable  cloth,  and  woollen,  and  he  wears  boots,  very 
large  and  serviceable,  to  which  strong  spurs  are  attached. 
His  broad,  fine  brow,  full  of  intelligence  and  grace,  is  covered 
by  an  old  cocked  hat,  which,  having  lost  the  loops  which 
held  it  in  the  three-cornered  shape,  is  now  rolled  up  upon 
each  side ;  and  his  manner  in  walking,  speaking,  arguing, 
reading,  is  much  after  the  description  of  his  costume — plain, 
straightforward,  and  though  somewhat  pompous,  destitute  of 
finery  and  ornament.  He  is  the  head  of  a  princely  establish 
ment,  he  has  thousands  of  acres,  and  hundreds  of  negroes, 
he  is  a  justice,  and  has  sat  often  in  the  House  of  Burgesses  : 
he  is  rich,  a  dignitary,  every  body  knows  it, — why  should 
he  strive  to  ape  elegancies,  and  trouble  himself  about  the 
impression  he  produces  ?  He  is  simple  and  plain,  as  he  con 
ceives,  because  he  is  a  great  proprietor  and  can  afford  to 
wear  rough  clothes,  and  talk  plainly. 

His  pomposity  is  not  obtrusive,  and  it  is  tempered  with 


A    SERIES    OF    CATASTROPHES.  23 

Bo  much  good  breeding  and  benevolence  that  it  does  not  de 
tract  from  the  pleasant  impression  produced  by  his  honest 
face.  As  he  enters  now  that  face  is  brown  and  red  with  ex 
ercise  upon  his  plantation — and  he  comes  in  with  cheerful 
smiles ;  his  rotund  person,  and  long  queue  gathered  by  a 
ribbon  smiling  no  less  than  his  eyes. 

In  his  hand  is  the  unfortunate  work-box,  which  has  not, 
however,  sustained  any  injury. 

"  Here  'tis,  puss  1  "  says  the  squire,  "  nothing  hurt — I 
picked  up  the  scissors  and  the  vest :  and  the  grass  was  as 
soft  as  a  cushion." 

With  which  words  the  worthy  squire  sits  down  and  wipes 
his  brow. 

"  Oh,  thank'ee.  papa,"  says  Kate — this  is  the  child's  name 
for  him  : — and  she  runs  and  takes  his  hat,  and  then  climbs  on 
his  lap,  and  laughingly  explains  how  cousin  Champ  hadn't 
meant  to  throw  the  box  out — "  because  you  know  me  and  cou 
sin  Champ  are  great  favorites  of  each  other's  :  and  I  am  his 
pet." 

Having  achieved  this  speech,  which  she  utters  with  a 
rush  of  laughter  in  her  voice,  Kate  hugs  her  box,  and  returns 
to  Carlo. 

"  Well,  Champ,"  says  the  planter,  "  whither  go  you  this 
afternoon — any  where  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not,"  says  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  Still  enamored  of  your  ease,  you  jolly  dog  1  " 

"  The  Epicurean  philosophy  is  greatly  to  my  taste,"  saya 
Mr.  Effingham,  "  riding  wearies  me." 

"  Every  thing  does." 

"Ah?" 

"  Yes,  sir :  you  are  the  finest  fine  gentleman  in  the 
Colony." 

This  half  compliment  produces  no  effect  upon  Mr.  Ef- 
dngham,  who  yawns. 

"  Why  not  go  and  see  Clare  Lee  ? — Clary's  the  most  be 
witching  little  creature  in  the  world,"  says  the  squire,  unfold 
ing  a  copy  of  the  "  Virginia  Gazette,"  which  he  draws  from 
his  pocket. 

"  Clare  Lee  ?  "  says  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  Yes,  sir  :  she's  a  little  beauty." 

11  Well,  so  she  is." 


24  80METHINO   LIKE    AN    ADVENTURE. 

"  And  as  good  as  an  angeL" 

"  Hazardous,  that,  sir." 

"  No,  sir  1  "  exclaims  the  squire,  "  it  is  true  !  Zounds  1 
she's  too  good  for  any  mortal  man." 

"  Consequently,  as  I  am  a  mortal  man — I  draw  the  infer 
ence,"  says  Mr.  Effinghara. 

"  Well,  she's  too  good  for  you,  sir  :  you  had  better  go 
and  see  her  :  it  may  improve  you." 

Mr.  Effingham  relents. 

"  I  think  that  is  very  desirable,  sir,"  he  says, "  and  on  my 
word,  I'll  go.  Please  ring  that  bell." 

The  squire  without  protest  takes  up  the  small  silver 
bell  and  rings  it.  Mr.  Effingham  orders  his  horse — descends 
soon  in  boots  and  riding  gloves,  and  mounting,  sets  forth  to 
wards  the  abode  of  the  angel — Miss  Clare  Lee. 


CHAPTER   III. 

SOMETHING  LIKE  AN  ADVENTURE, 

LEAVING  the  group  which  we  have  seen  assemble  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Effingham  Hall,  let  us  follow  the  worthy 
whose  misdeeds  in  connection  with  the  work-box  and  lapdog 
caused  the  dramatic  assemblage. 

Mr.  Effingham,  elegantly  clad  in  a  riding  costume,  perfect 
in  its  appointment,  and  mounted  on  a  splendid  courser  which 
he  had  appropriated  from  his  father's  stud,  took  his  way 
through  the  fresh  woods  towards  Riverhead,  the  residence. 
of  Mr.  Lee  and  his  two  daughters,  Henrietta  and  Clare. 
But  Mr.  Effingham  was  much  too  sensible  a  gentleman  to 
bore  himself,  as  we  say  to-day,  with  the  fine  scenery  of  Octo 
ber — the  fair  blue  skies,  with  their  snowy  clouds  floating  on 
like  ships  towards  the  clear  horizon — the  variegated  woods 
Cull  of  singing  birds — the  streams  dancing  in  the  sun — and 
all  the  myriad  attractions  of  an  autumn  afternoon.  Hia 
taste  had  been  phaped  iu  London,  and  the  glare  of  lights, 


SOMETHING   LIKE   AN   ADVENTURE.  25 

the  noise  of  revelry,  and  gay  encounter  of  bright  wits  and 
beauty,  had  long  since  deprived  him  of  the  faculty  of  admir 
ing  such  an  insipid  thing  as  simple  nature.  There  was  little 
affectation  about  the  worthy  gentleman  in  reality :  he  wag 
really  and  truly  worn  out.  Accustomed  for  some  length  of 
time  to  evry  species  of  dissipation,  his  character  had  been 
seriously  injured — his  freshness  was  gone,  and  he  sought 
DOW  for  nothing  so  much  as  emotions.  We  shall  see  if  he 
was  fortunate  in  his  search. 

At  times,  as  he  went  along,  Mr.  Effingham  indulged  in  a 
gort  of  silent,  well-bred  laughter,  at  the  scene  he  had  just 
witnessed  at  the  Hall. 

'•  What  a  farce  the  world  is,"  he  said,  philosophically, 
"  we  all  run  after  something — one  has  his  literary  ambition, 
another  political  aspiration  :  this  young  lady  wishes  to  marry 
a  lord  :  that  young  gentleman's  highest  hope  in  life  is,  that 
his  comedy  may  not  be  damned  for  its  want  of  freedom — the 
polite  word  now  I  understand.  It's  all  weariness  :  I  really 
begin  to  think  that  little  Katy  and  Alethea,  with  their  em 
broidery  and  lapdogs,  are  the  most  sensible  after  all.  Em 
broidery  and  lapdogs  cost  less,  and " 

Mr.  Effingham  drew  up  suddenly — so  suddenly,  that  his 
horse  rose  on  his  haunches,  and  tossed  his  head  aloft. 

The  meaning  of  this  movement  was  simply  that  he  saw 
before  him  in  the  centre  of  the  road  he  was  following,  a  lady, 
who  apparently  awaited  his  approach. 

The  lady  was  mounted  upon  a  tall  white  horse,  which 
stood  perfectly  quiet  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  seemed 
to  be  docility  itself,  though  the  fiery  eyes  contradicted  this 
first  impression.  Rather  would  one  acquainted  with  the  sin 
gular  character  of  horses  have  said  that  this  animal  was 
subdued  by  the  gentle  hand  of  his  rider,  and  so  laid  aside 
from  pure  affection/  all  his  waywardness. 

This  rider  was  a  young  girl  about  eighteen,  and  of  rare 
and  extraordinary  beauty.  Her  hair — so  much  as  was  visi 
ble  beneath  her  hood — seemed  to  be  dark  chestnut,  and  her 
complexion  was  dazzling.  The  eyes  were  large,  full,  and 
dark — instinct  with  fire  and  softness,  feminine  modesty,  and 
collected  firmness — the  firmness,  however,  predominating. 
But  the  lips  were  different.  They  were  the  lips  of  a  child — 
soft,  guileless,  tender,  confiding  :  they  were  purity  and  VB 


26  SOMETHING    LIKE    AN    ADVENTURE. 

nocence  itself,  and  seemed  to  say,  that  however  much  the 
brain  might  become  hard  and  worldly,  the  heart  of  this  ycung 
woman  never  could  be  other  than  the  tender  and  delicately 
sensitive  heart  of  a  child. 

She  was  clad  in  a  riding  dress  of  pearl  color — and  from 
the  uniformity  of  this  tint,  it  seemed  to  be  a  favorite  with  her. 
The  hood  was  of  silk,  and  the  delicately  gloved  hand  held  a 
little  ivory-handled  riding  whip,  which  now  dangled  at  her 
side.  The  other  gloved  hand  supported  her  cheek ;  and  in 
this  position  the  unknown  lady  calmly  awaited  Mr.  Effing- 
ham's  approach  still  nearer,  though  he  was  already  nearly 
touching  her. 

Mr.  Effingham  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  with  elegant 
courtesy.  The  lady  returned  this  inclination  by  a  graceful 
movement  of  her  head. 

"  Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  point  out  the  road  to  the 
town  of  Williamsburg,  sir  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  calm  and  clear 
voice. 

"  With  great  pleasure,  madam,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham, 
"you  have  lost  your  way  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir,  very  strangely,  and  as  evening  drew  on,  was 
afraid  of  being  benighted." 

"  You  have  but  to  follow  this  road  until  you  reach 
Effingham  Hall,  madam,"  he  said — "  the  house  in  the  dis 
tance  yonder  :  then  turn  to  the  left,  and  you  are  in  the 
highway  to  town." 

"  Thanks,  sir,"  the  young  girl  said,  with  another  calm 
inclination  of  her  head:  and  she  touched  her  horse  with 
the  whip. 

"  But  cannot  I  accompany  you  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Effingham, 
whose  curiosity  was  greatly  aroused,  and  found  his  eyes,  he 
knew  not  why,  riveted  to  the  rare  beauty  of  his  companion's 
face,  "  do  you  not  need  me  as  a  guide  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  think  not,  sir,"  she  said,  with  the  same  calm 
ness,  your  direction  is  very  plain,  and  I  am  accustomed  to 
ride  by  myself." 

"  But  really,"  began  Mr.  Effingham,  somewhat  piqued, 
a  I  know  it  is  intrusive — I  know  I  have  not  the  honor " 

She  interrupted  him  with  her  immovable  calmness. 

"  You  would  say  you  do  not  know  me,  and  that  your  offer 
b  intrusive,  I  believe  sir.  I  do  not  consider  it  so — it  is  verj 


SOMETHING    LIKE    AN    ADVENTURE,  '<i7 

kind :  bat  I  am  not  a  fearful  girl,  and  need  not  trouble 
you  at  all." 

And  she  bowed. 

"  One  moment,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Effingham;  "  I  am  real 
ly  dying  with  curiosity  to  know  you.  'Tis  very  rude  to  say 
so,  of  course — but  I  am  acquainted  with  every  lady  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  I  do  not  recall  any  former  occasion  upon 
which  I  had  the  pleasure — " 

"  It  is  very  easily  explained,  sir,"  the  young  girl  said. 

"  Madam—?" 

"  I  do  not  live  in  the  neighborhood — " 

"Ah?— no?" 

"  And  I  am  not  a  lady,  sir :  does  not  that  explain  it  ?" 

Mr.  Effingham  scarcely  believed  his  ears :  these  astound 
ing  words  were  uttered  with  such  perfect  calmness  that  there 
was  no  possible  room  to  suppose  that  they  were  meant  for 
a  jest.  What  then  ?  He  could  not  speak :  he  only  looked 
at  her. 

"You  are  surprised,  sir,"  the  young  girl  said,  quite 
simply  and  gravely. 

"  Upon  my  word,  madam — never  have  I — really-—* 

"  Your  surprise  will  not  last  long,  sir." 

"  How,  madam  ?" 

"  Do  you  ever  visit  the  town  of  Williamsburg  ?M 

"  Frequently." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  think  you  will  see  me  again.  Now  I  must 
continue  my  way,  having  returned  you  my  very  sincere  thanks 
for  your  kindness." 

With  which  words — words  uttered  in  that  wondrous  voice 
of  immovable  calmness — the  young  girl  again  inclined  her 
sumptuous  head,  touched  her  white  horse  with  the  whip,  and 
slowly  rode  out  of  sight. 

Mr.  Effingham  remained  for  several  moments  motionless, 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  gazing  with  wide  and  astonished 
eyes  after  the  beautiful  equestrian.  He  was  endeavoring 
by  a  tremendous  mental  exertion  to  solve  the  astounding 
problem  of  her  identity.  Vain  was  all  his  pondering — noth 
ing  came  of  all  his  thought,  his  knit  brows,  his  lip  gnawed 
ferociously,  as  he  mused.  Mr.  Effingham  was  confident  that 
he  knew,  at  least  by  sight,  every  young  lady  at  Williamsburg, 
and  within  a  circuit  of  twenty  miles,  but  this  face  was  whoi- 


28  THE   ROSE  AND   THE   VIOLET. 

ly  unknown  to  him.  He  had  certainly  never  seen  her  before 
and  then  the  strange  fact  of  her  riding  out  alone  :  her  self- 
possession  :  "  she  was  accustomed  to  ride  alone  " — "  she  waa 
not  a  lady  " — "  they  should  probably  meet  again  " — what  in 
the  name  of  Fate,  was  the  meaning  of  all  this  ? 

"  May  the  fiend  seize  me,  if  the  days  of  wandering 
Knights  and  forlorn  damsels,  haunted  castles  and  giants  have 
not  returned  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Effingham,  emphatically.  And 
having  thus  disburdened  his  mind,  he  rode  on — but  still  his 
mind  dwelt  on  the  strange  lady,  and  her  more  singular 
words. 

Not  a  lady  ! "  what  could  she  mean  ?  was  there  ever 
since  the  days  of  the  Sphinx  so  complete  a  puzzle  i  In  face, 
person,  dress,  and  carriage  she  was  every  inch  a  lady — why 
then  utter  that  astounding  observation,  enunciate  that  start 
ling  intelligence  ?  who  could  she  be.  however  ?  Mr.  Effing- 
ham  ran  over  in  his  mind,  the  whole  of  his  friends  and  ac 
quaintances,  and  could  recollect  no  one  whose  face  bore  the 
slightest  resemblance  to  that  of  the  unknown  lady.  He  gave 
ap  in  despair,  finally,  and  struck  his  spurs  into  the  noble  ani* 
mal  he  rode,  with  unusual  vigor.  The  horse  started  forward, 
and  in  half  an  hour  he  had  reached  Riverhead. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE  BOSE  AND  THE  YIOLET. 

Two  young  ladies  were  walking  upon  the  smooth-shaven 
lawn,  which  stretched  unbroken  save  by  a  few  noble  oaks  and 
clumps  of  shrubbery,  from  the  fine  old  mansion  to  the  wood 
land  on  each  side  and  the  enclosure  in  front. 

One  of  the  ladies  was  tall  and  brilliant :  her  superb  figure 
undulating  with  every  movement  would  have  graced  a  palace, 
and  her  bright  eyes  and  merry  lips  were  full  of  life  and  fire. 
She  was  clad  with  extreme  richness,  and  the  fine  silks  and 
Telvets  which  she  wore  shone  brilliantly  in  the  clear  October 


THE    ROSE   AND    THE   VIOLET.  29 

aunlight  as  she  moved.  This  sheen  of  silk  seemed  her  ap 
propriate  accompaniment,  and  the  diamond  necklace  which 
she  wore  was  not  observed.  Her  eyes  and  brilliant  expres 
sion  threw  the  silk  and  velvet  and  all  jewels  in  the  back 
ground.  She  looked  the  incarnation  of  aristocracy,  using 
that  term  in  its  colloquial  sense,  and  seemed  to  brim  with 
mirth  and  merry  witticisms  from  a  pure  sentiment  of  life 
and  superiority  to  every  one. 

Her  companion  was  smaller  in  stature,  and  plainly 
younger — apparently  about  nineteen.  Her  figure  was  more 
delicate,  her  beauty  more  pensive  and  aerial.  The  squire's 
criticism,  or  abandonment  of  all  criticism,  did  not  seem  at 
all  extravagant.  A  profusion  of  golden  hair,  blue  eyes  full 
of  deep  tenderness  and  instinct  with  a  species  of  quiet  happy 
pensiveness — these,  added  to  a  complexion  as  fair  as  a  lily 
and  as  transparent  as  a  fresh  stream,  made  up  a  countenance 
of  exquisite  beauty. 

The  first  lady  was  Miss  Henrietta  Lee  : — the  second  was 
her  sister,  Miss  Clare  Lee,  between  whom  and  Mr.  Effing- 
ham  a  sort  of  undeveloped  courtship  existed. 

Mr.  Effingham  approached  the  ladies,  trailing  the  feather 
of  his  hat  upon  the  grass. 

"  Ah  1  Mr.  Effingham  !  "  cried  Henrietta,  with  a  merry 
laugh,  "  and  as  weary-looking  as  ever  1 " 

"  Still  jesting,  Miss  Henrietta — or  cousin  Henrietta,  as 
you  agree  I  may  in  future  call  you ;  have  I  presumed,  and 
may  I  address  you  by  that  pleasant  name  ?  " 

"  Certainly  you  may,"  said  the  laughing  girl,  "  though  I 
believe  the  cousinship  is  rather  distant." 

"  To  my  regret." 

"  Your  regret  ?— truly  ? ' 

"  In  sober  truth,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham,  languidly  twirl 
ing  his  cocked  hat :  "  near  cousins,  you  know,  have  many 
agreeable  privileges.  Have  they  not,  Miss  Clare  ?  " 

Clare  turned  her  soft,  frank  eyes  on  the  young  man  and 

•  II  «/  •/  O 

railed. 

"  That  is  enough,"  continued  Mr.  Effingham,  "  when  a 
lady  smiles  she  always  means  yes." 

"  A  hasty  conclusion  !  "  said  Henrietta,  "  many  a  gay 
cavalier  on  his  knees  before  a  lady  has  been  laughed  at." 

"  True,  true :  though  I  am  most  happy  to  say  that  1 


30  THE  ROSE  AND  THE  VIOLET. 

have  never  had  the  bad  fortune  to  verify  the  t.rath  of  youi 
observation." 

And  smoothing  gently  the  ruffles  at  his  breast,  Mr. 
Effingham  yawned.  Henrietta  burst  into  laughter,  and  her 
brilliant  eyes  flashed  mischievously. 

Mr.  Effingham  looked  round  in  apparent  astonishment. 

"  If  I  may  be  permitted  to  inquire,  Miss  Henrietta,  or 
cousin  Henrietta,  as  I  shall  beg  leave  henceforth  to  call 
you » 

"  Oh,  certainly  1 " 

"  What  were  you  laughing  at,  pray  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ? ' 

"  If  you  please." 

"  At  you,  then !  " 

"  At  me  ?  " 

"  At  you." 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  my  company  BO  agreeably  entertain 
ing  :  true,  I  am  in  unusually  excellent  spirits." 

"  Spirits  1  you  ?  Why  you  yawned  most  portentouslj 
this  moment  1 " 

"All  habit — a  bad  habit,  I  confess :  and  to  prove  that  I 
am  not  weary,  I  have  an  adventure  to  relate." 

"  An  adventure  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

And  Mr.  Effingham,  in  an  elegant,  petit  maitre  manner, 
narrated  his  adventure,  as  he  was  pleased  to  call  it,  with  the 
unknown  horsewoman. 

"  Who  could  it  have  been  ?  "  said  Clare. 

"  Who,  indeed  !  "  echoed  Henrietta. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know.  Some  wandering  queen, 
or  fairy,  I  suppose — this  Virginia  is  th«s  land  of  romance 
and  magic.  I  think  it  very  fortunate  that  she  did  not  bid  me 
dismount,  seat  myself  behind  her,  and  go  off  thus  to  fairy 
land  with  her.  In  which  case,"  continued  Mr.  Effingham, 
gallantly,  "  I  should  not  have  experienced  the  happiness  of 
gazing  at  your  pleasant  and  beautiful  countenances,  cousins 
Henrietta  and  Clare." 

"  You  are  too  kind  1  "  laughed  Henrietta. 

"  And  not  very  sincere,"  said  Clare,  smiling. 

"  Not  sincere  ?  " 

And  Mr.  Effingham's  glance  dwelt  for  a  moment  almost 


THE    ROSE    AND    THE   VIOLET.  3 1 

tenderly  on  the  face  of  Clare,  who  looked  like  a  pure  angel, 
in  the  bright  crimson  light  of  sunset. 

"  If  you  thought  us  so  pleasant  you  would  come  oftt>tier," 
she  said,  with  a  flitting  blush. 

"  My  poor  society  would  ovly  weary  you,  I  fear,"  he  said, 
ostensibly  addressing  both  of  the  sisters,  but  looking  at 
Clare,  "  I  am  a  poor  visitor." 

Clare  turned  away  and  puiled  a  rose. 

"  It  is  not  so  far,"  she  murmured,  refusing  plainly  tc 
accept  the  excuse,  and  speaking  in  so  low  a  tone  that  Hen 
rietta,  who  had  taken  some  steps  to  meet  her  approaching 
father,  did  not  hear  the  words. 

"  And  if  I  came  ?  "  whispered  Mr.  Effingham. 

Clare  turned  away  to  hide  her  confusion. 

"  Could  I  hope,  dear  cousin  Ciare — dearest  Clare  1  — " 

Mr.  Effingham  was  getting  on.  But  Henrietta  and  Mr 
Lee  approached. 

"  That  you  could — could —  " 

"  Good  evening,  Champ,"  said  Mr.  Lee,  a  fine  portly  old 
gentleman,  coming  up  arm  in  arm  with  Henrietta,  "  glad  to 
see  you." 

Mr.  Effingham  bowed,  and  Clare  bent  down  to  examine, 
with  profound  curiosity,  the  rosebud  which  she  held  in  her 
little  hand. 

"  The  evening  was  so  fine,  that  I  thought  I  could  not 
spend  it  more  agreeably  than  in  a  ride  to  Riverhead,  sir/' 
said  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  Delightful  1 — these  August  days  are  excellent  for  the 
corn ;  what  news  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir — I  have  not  seen  the  ' Gazette.'" 

"  Oh,  the  '  Gazette'  never  contains  any  intelligence : 
sometimes,  it  is  true,  we  hear  what  is  goiog  on  in  Parliament, 
but  it  never  condescends  to  afford  UP  any  news  from  Vir 
ginia.  The  tobacco  on  the  south  side  may  be  all  gone  to 
the  devil  for  any  thing  you  read  in  the  '  Gazette.'  Here  it 
is — an  abominable  sheet  I  Ah  1  I  see  we  are  to  have  a  the 
atrical  performance  in  Williamsburg  next  week,"  added  th« 
old  gentleman,  glancing  over  the  paper,  "  Mr.  Hallam  and 
his  '  Virginia  Company  of  Comedians  ' — very  politic,  that 
addition  of  '  Virginia  1  * — are  to  perform  The  Merchant  of 
Venice,  by  perir-iiuion  of  his  worship  the  Major,  at  the  Old 
Theatre  near  the  Capitol,  he  announces.  Truly  we  are  im- 


12  THE   ROSE   AND   THE   VIOLET. 

proving :  really  becoming  civilized,  in  this  barbarous  term 
incognita. 

Mr.  Effingham  winced ;  be  bad  more  than  once  expressed 
a  similar  opinion  of  Virginia  in  good  faith — not  ironically — 
and  the  old  gentleman's  words  seemed  directed  at  himself. 
A  moment's  reflection,  however,  persuaded  him  that  this 
could  not  be  the  case  ;  he  had  not  visited  Kiverhead  a  dozen 
times  since  his  return  from  Oxford  and  London — and  on 
those  occasions  had  never  touched  upon  the  subject  of  Vir 
ginia  and  its  dreadful  deficiencies. 

"  A  play  ?  "  he  said,  "  that  is  really  good  news : — but  the 
'  Merchant  of  Venice  '  is  not  one  of  my  acquaintances." 

"  Ah,  you  young  men  are  wrong  in  giving  up  Will 
Shakespeare  for  the  Steeles,  Addisons,  and  Vanbrughs. 
Mr.  Addison's  essays  are  very  pleasant  and  entertaining 
reading,  and  sure,  there  never  was  a  finer  gentleman  than 
Sir  Roger ; — but  in  the  drama,  Will  Shakespeare  distances 
him  all  to  nothing." 

"  Let  us  go  to  see  the  play,  papa,"  said  Henrietta. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Clare. 

The  old  gentleman  tenderly  smoothed  the  bright  golden 
hair. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  he  said. 

"  And  may  I  request  permission  to  accompany  the  party, 
ladies  ?  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  languidly. 

"How  modest!"  said  Henrietta,  laughing ;  "certainly 
you  may  go,  sir.  You  will  tell  us  when  to  hiss  or  applaud, 
you  know,  as  you  are  just  from  London  1 " 

"  What  a  quick  tongue  she  has  I "  said  Mr.  Lee,  fondly ; 
"  well,  we  will  all  go,  and  see  what  the  '  Virginia  Company 
of  Comedians '  is  like  :  not  much,  I  fear." 

"  Oh,  we'll  have  a  delightful  time,"  cried  Clare,  glanc 
ing  at  Mr.  Effingham  softly  and  frankly. 

That  young  gentleman's  languor  melted  like  snow  iu 
the  sunshine,  and  as  he  placed  the  little  hand  upon  his  arm 
to  lead  its  owner  in  to  supper,  he  pressed  it  tenderly,  and 
whispered : 

"  I  know  I  shall,  for  you  will  be  with  me,  dearest  Clare : 
— don't  be  offended,  for  you  know — " 

The  whisper  of  the  leaves  around  them,  drowned  the 
end  of  the  sentence,  but  the  red  sunset  lighting  up  Clare'* 
K>ft  warm  cheek  might  very  well  have  spared  its  crimscn  1 


POLITICS    AND    COURTSHIP.  &3 


CHAPTER    V. 

POLTH08  AND  OOUBTBHIP. 

"  WE  cannot  rationally  doubt  it,  sir,"  said  the  squire,  admir 
ing  the  excellent  glass  of  claret  which  he  held  between  hi 
eye  and  the  window ;  "  there  must  be  classes,  scales  of  re 
finement,  culture  and   authority  :  to   state  the   proposition 
proves  it." 

The  squire  uttered  these  oracular  words  at  his  dinner- 
table  on  the  day  after  Mr.  Champ  Effingham's  visit  to  River- 
head.  That  gentleman  was  seated  in  a  lounging  attitude, 
ever  and  anon  moistening  his  lips  with  a  glass  of  wine.  In 
one  corner  of  the  room  Miss  Alethea  prosecuted  some  dar 
ling  household  work,  her  favorite  Orange  lying  comfortably 
coiled  up  in  her  lap  :  in  another,  Master  Willie  and  little 
Kate  were  having  a  true-love  quarrel  as  to  the  proper  shade  of 
silk  to  be  used  on  Carlo's  nose  in  the  famous  embroidery. 
But  we  have  omitted  in  this  catalogue  of  personages  a  gen 
tleman  sitting  at  the  table  on  the  squire's  right  hand,  and 
whom  we  now  beg  leave  to  briefly  introduce  to  the  reader 
as  Mr.  Tag,  the  parson  of  the  parish.  The  parson  was  a 
rosy,  puffy-looking  individual  of  some  fifty  years,  and  in 
his  person,  carriage,  and  tone  of  voice  betrayed  a  mingled 
effrontery  and  awkwardness :  having  formerly  served  as  a 
common  soldier,  then  lived  by  his  wits,  as  an  adventurer, 
he  had  finally,  perforce  of  the  influence  of  a  noble  patron 
for  whom  he  had  performed  some  secret  seivice,  been  pre 
sented  to  a  benefice  in  the  colony  of  Virginia.  We  cannot 
dwell  on  the  worthy  gentleman's  character,  and  can  only 
add  here  that  he  was  a  regular  visitor  at  Efl&ngham  Hall 
about  dinner  time,  and  that  he  had  no  religious  scruples 
against  taking  a  hand  at  ticta<  or  other  games  of  chance, 
any  more  than  he  was  opposed  to  the  good  old  English 
divertisement  of  fox-hunting. 

To  the  squire's  oracular  dogma  laying  down  the  laws  of  so 
cial  organization,  the  parson  replied  between  two  gulps  of 
elaret : 

"  Certainly  —  oh  certainly." 


34  folifics 

"  The  men  of  education  and  lineage  not  only  must  alwayi 
rule,"  continues  his  host,  "but  ought  to ;  to  trust  the  reins 
of  power  in  the  hands  of  common  men,  who  have  compar 
atively  no  stake  in  the  community,  no  property,  no  family, 
is  absurd — a  doctrine  too  monstrous  to  require  refutation." 

The  parson  shook  his  head. 

"  I  very  much  fear,  squire,  that  these  good  old  sentiments 
are  becoming  obsolete.  We  men  of  position  and  rank  in  so 
ciety,  born  in  high  social  station,  will  have  to  yield,  I  fear. — 
They  are  seriously  talking,  I  understand,  of  giving  every 
man  in  the  colony  a  vote." 

"  Every  man  a  vote  1  who  speaks  of  it  ?  who  Droaches 
such  an  absurdity  ?" 

"'A  parcel  of  hair-brained  young  men,  who  will  yet  get 
themselves  into  trouble.  As  a  minister  of  the  Established 
Church,  I  hold  it  my  duty  to  warn  them,  and  after  that  have 
no  further  concern  with  them.  I  have  pointed  them  out  to 
the  authorities,  and  I  now  call  your  worship's  attention  to 
the  subject" 

"  Who  are  they  ?" 

"  First  and  foremost,  a  young  man  called  Waters — son  of 
the  fisherman  on  the  river  there  near  Williamsburg.  He  had 
the  audacity  to  intrude  upon  a  conversation  I  was  holding 
with  some  gentlemen  of  my  parish  in  town  a  day  or  two 
since,  and  he  uttered  opinions  over  and  above  what  I  have 
called  to  your  attention,  which  will  bring  him  to  the  gallows 
if  he  does  not  beware." 

"  Other  opinions  ?" 

"  He  spoke  of  the  oppressions  of  the  Home  Government, 
said  that  Virginians  would  not  always  be  slaves,  and  actually 
broached  a  plan  for  thoroughly  educating  the  lower  classes." 

"  A  statesman  in  short  clothes,"  said  the  squire,  with  a 
sneer  —  "  the  wine  stays  with  you,  sir — a  colonial  patriot ! 
faugh  !  Educate  the  lower  classes  1  Educate  my  indented 
servant,  and  the  common  tradesman  and  farmer,  and  have 
the  knave  talking  to  me  of  the  '  rights  of  men,'  and  all  the 
wretched  stuff  and  foolery  of  Utopian  castle-builders  I  you 
are  right,  sir,  that  young  man  mtut  be  watched.  Good  hea 
vens  1  how  has  the  Home  Government  oppressed  us  ?  I  grant 
you,  there  are  some  laws  I  would  have  altered — and  others 
refused  us,  passed  —  but  is  this  oppression  ?  Damn  my 


POLITICS   AND    COURTSHIP.  35 

blood  I"  added  the  squire,  with  great  indignation,  "  I  now  feel 
the  truth  of  Will  Shakespeare's  words,  that  'the  age  is  grown 
BO  picked,  the  toe  of  the  peasant  comes  near  the  heel  of  the 
courtier  and  galls  his  kibe,'  or  to  that  effect.  The  direct 
consequence  of  these  fooleries  is  to  abolish  our  rank — follow 
these  doctrines,  and  where  will  be  our  gentlemen  ?" 

"  Where,  indeed  ?» 

"  Even  the  very  parsons  will  go  to  the  devil,"  here  in 
terposed  Mr.  Champ  Effingham,  with  an  evident  desire  U 
yawn. 

The  squire  greeted  this  sally  of  his  son  with  a  laugh. 

"  You  are  irreverent,  young  sir,"  the  parson  said,  making 
an  effort  to  look  dignified. 

"  I  irreverent !  "  replied  Mr.  Effingham,  coolly ;  "  by  no 
means,  most  reverend  sir.  I  think  my  respect  for  you  is 
sufficiently  shown  by  attending  church  punctually  every 
Sunday,  and  respectably  going  to  sleep  under  the  effect  of 
your  admirable  homilies." 

"  You  jest  at  my  homilies " 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  But  you  should  understand,  young  man,  that  a  minister 
of  the  Church  of  England  is  not  a  public  haranguer " 

"  Precisely." 

"  And  dishonors  his  high  place  and  position  by  appealing 
to  the  passions  and  feelings  of  his  hearers  instead  of  giving 
them  good  wholesome  doctrine." 

And  Parson  Tag  drew  himself  up,  with  a  hauteur  which 
badly  assorted  with  his  puffy  face  and  figure. 

"  You  are  right,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham,  with  languid 
indifference  ;  "  nothing  is  so  disagreeable  as  these  appeals  to 
the  feelings  which  you  speak  of,  most  reverend  sir.  How 
could  you  bend  your  excellent  mind  to  ombre  and  tictac 
after  such  performances ;  or,  exhausted  by  such  unnecessary 
exertion  as  a  '  rousing  appeal '  demands,  join  in  the  delight 
ful  pursuit  of  a  grey  fox  on  the  following  Monday  ?  " 

The  squire  laughed  again,  at  the  crestfallen  parson,  and 
said: 

"  Come,  no  tongue-fencing  at  the  dinner-table  ;  we  have 
wandered  from  the  subject  which  we  commenced  with." 

"  What  was  the  subject  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Effingham,  lau 
guidly. 


86  POLITICS  AND   COURTSHIP. 

"  What  1  was  all  the  parson's  eloquence  thrown  away  on 
you  ?  " 

"  Perfectly ;  I  was  not  listening,  with  the  exception  of  a 
moment,  when  you  closed  your  address." 

"  We  were  speaking  of  classes,  and  the  necessity  which 
avery  gentleman  is  under  to  preserve  his  rank." 

"  I  suppose  it's  true ;  but  I  never  busy  myself  with 
these  matters." 

"  You  should,  sir ;  the  estate  of  Effingham  falls  to  you 
as  eldest  son." 

"  I  trust,  respected  sir,  that  I  shall  worthily  comport 
myself  in  that  station  in  life  to  which  it  hath  pleased  Heaven 
to  call  me,"  drawled  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  Never  jest  with  the  forms  of  the  Established  Church, 
sir,"  said  his  father,  with  some  asperity ;  for  however  willing 
the  squire  was  to  applaud  a  jest  at  the  parson's  expense, 
one  directed  at  the  church  itself  was  a  very  different 
matter.  "  I  hold  every  thing  connected  with  the  Liturgj 
of  the  Holy  Church  as  sacred." 

Mr.  Effingham  assented,  with  a  careless  inclination  of  his 
head. 

"  This  spirit  of  free  speaking  and  thinking  is  worse  than 
the  other,"  continued  the  planter ;  "  those  abominable  New 
Lights  1 " 

"  Wretched,  misguided  fools,"  chimed  in  the  parson, 
whose  equanimity  several  glasses  of  wine  had  restored  by 
this  time  perfectly. 

"  I  cordially  hate  and  despise  them,"  said  the  planter, 
"  and  consider  it  my  duty  to  do  so.  I  hope  the  representa 
tive  of  my  family  will  share  my  sentiments." 

This  observation  being  directed  at  Mr.  Effingham,  that 
gentleman  replied  indifferently : 

"  Of  course — of  course." 

"  Champ,"  said  the  old  planter,  "  you  are  really  becom 
ing  worse  than  ever.  Where  will  your  indifference  to  every 
thing  end,  I  should  like  much  to  know  ?  You  seem  to 
have  no  aim  in  life,  no  thought  of  advancement,  no  opinions, 
even." 

"  True,  sir ;  that  is  a  pretty  fair  statement  of  the  truth. 
This  subject  of  rank  and  classes,  gentlemen  and  commoner** 
advancement,  ambition,  and  all  that,  never  troubles  me." 


POLITICS   AND   COtJRTSHIK  37 

"Sunt  quos  curriculo  pulvorem  Olympicum, 
Collegisse  juvat  metaque  fervidis 
Evitata  rotis," 

or  something  of  that  sort.  It's  Horace,  I  believe,  and  the 
scanning  strikes  me  as  correct.  I  mean,  respected  sir,  that 
I  am  not  ambitious,  and  have  no  very  fervid  desire  to  get 
dusty  in  the  arena,  or  race-course,  I  should  more  properly 
say — dust  soils  the  ruffles  so  abominably." 

The  squire  always  ended  by  laughing  at  his  son's  peti 
maitre  airs,  though  he  had  sagacity  enough  to  perceive  that 
there  was  little  real  affectation  in  the  young  gentleman's 
weariness  and  indifference.  He  argued,  however,  that  this 
would  disappear  in  time,  and  knowing  that  any  argument 
would  be  useless  on  the  present  occasion,  turned  the  conver 
sation  by  taking  wine  with  the  parson. 

Let  us  see  what  the  youthful  members  of  the  company 
were  saying  now.  Human  nature,  under  all  guises,  and  in 
every  possible  degree  of  development,  is  worthy  of  atten 
tion.  Master  Will,  who  had  been  making  assiduous  love  to 
Kate,  engaged  now  on  Carlo's  nose,  caught  Mr.  Effingham's 
Latin,  and  betook  himself  to  a  sotto  voce  criticism  on  the 
speaker. 

"  Just  listen  to  brother  Champ,  how  learned  he  is  1  He's 

just  from  Oxford,  and  thinks  that  Latin  mighty  fine to 

be  kissing  you  the  other  day  I  "  added  this  young  scion  of 
the  house  of  Efimgham,  thus  betraying  the  disinterested  and 
impartial  character  of  his  criticism. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  care — I  like  to  kiss  cousin  Champ,"  says 
Kate,  with  a  coquettish  little  twinkle  of  the  eye,  "  he's  al 
ways  so  nice,  you  know." 

"Nice!  he  nice?" 

"Why,  yes.'1 

"  He  aint ! " 

"  That's  your  gallantry  :  to  contradict  a  lady,"  aayi 
Kate,  with  the  air  of  a  duchess. 

"  I'm  nicer  than  he  is,"  says  Will,  eluding  like  a  skilful 
debater  the  charge  of  want  of  gallantry.  u  I  don't  stuff  my 
nose  full  of  snuff  and  sneeze  all  the  powder  off  my  hair." 

"  Ha !  ha !  "  laughs  Kate. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  ' 

"  You  hav'n't  any  powder  1 " 


38  POLITICS  AND  COURTSHIP. 

"  Never  mind  :  I  mean  to." 

"  When  ?  » 

"  Never  mind  1 " 

"  Why  you'd  look  ridiculous,  Willie." 

"  Ridiculous  i  me  ridiculous  1  Hav'n't  I  aigh-heeled 
*hoes — " 

"  So  have  I— I'm  a  girl" 

M  And  silk  stockings." 
So  have  I,  sir." 

•  And  ruffles,  and  sword,  and  all' 

"  Oh,  what  a  fine  cavalier." 

Master  Will  looks  mortified. 

"  Now,  Willie,"  says  Kate,  "  don't  pout,  for  you  know  I 
was  only  jesting." 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  then." 

"  A  young  lady  kiss  a  gentleman  ?     Indeed  ! " 

The  flattering  word  "  gentleman  "  completely  restores 

Master  Will's  good  humor:    and   essaying   to  conquer   a 

'salute,"  as  they  said  in  those  honest  courteous  old  times, 

Kate's  needle  pricks  his  finger,  which  circumstance  causes 

the  youthful  cavalier  to  utter  a  shrill  cry  of  pain. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Will  ?  "  asks  the  squire,  breaking 
off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  addressed  to  the  parson. 

"  Nothing  much,"  says  Mr.  Champ  Efliingham,  who  has 
watched  the  assault  of  his  younger  brother  with  philoso 
phic  interest,  "  merely  an  illustration  of  the  truth  of  my 
views." 

"  Your  views — what  views  ?" 

"  Will  was  ambitious  to  '  collect  the  Olympic  dust ' — in 
other  words  to  kiss  Katy,  and  the  needle  ran  into  hit 
finger.  So  much  for  ambition.  Moral :  never  meddle  with 
the  ladies." 

Master  Will  listens  to  this  languidly-uttered  speech 
with  many  indications  of  dissatisfaction — uttering  more  than 
one  expressive  "  humph  !  "  that  little  monosyllable  which 
•onveys  so  much.  At  Mr.  Emngham's  "  moral,"  however,  he 
boiled  over. 

"  Never  meddle  with  ladies,  indeed !  "  he  said,  "  that's 
pretty,  coming  from  you,  brother  Champ,  when  old  June  from 
Kiverhead  says  he  saw  you  yesterday  courting  cousin 
Clare  1  "--old  June  having,  indeed,  retailed  to  Cato  that 


POLITICS   ANt)    COBRTSfllf.  39 

evening,  in  Master  Will's  hearing,  the  fact  that  he  "  sped 
they'd  be  a  marridgin  somewheres  'fore  long  'sidering  how 
Mas'  Champ  Efnum  and  Mis'  Clary  was  agwyin'  on  I ' 

The  squire  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  and  rallied  Mr. 
Effingham  without  mercy.  That  gentleman,  though  for  a 
moment  disconcerted,  quickly  regained  his  nonchalance,  and 
raising  his  glass  languidly,  said  with  a  delightful  drawl,  an 
exaggeration  of  his  usual  languor  : 

"  Of  course  it's  all  true,  sir ;  but  why  laugh  at  me  foi 
following  your  respectable  advice  ?  " 

"  Clare's  much  too  good  for  you,  Champ,"  eaid  Miss 
Alethea,  taking  a  pin  from  her  mouth  and  affixing  there 
with  some  indescribable  garment  to  her  knee,  the  better  to 
set  to  work  on  it. 

"  Ah  1 "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  indifferently,  "  well,  I  think 
so  too." 

"  A  thousand  times,"  said  Master  Will. 

"  Come,  Will,  recollect  Champ  is  your  elder  brother,' 
said  the  old  planter,  laughing  merrily. 

"  Brother  Champ  laughed  at  me,"  said  Master  Will. 

"  True,  I  did,  and  am  justly  punished — but  correct  the 
word,  Will :  say  I  philosophized  upon  the  result  of  your  as 
sault  to  steal  the  kiss.  I  never  laugh." 

"  There's  no  harm  in  my  kissing  Kate,"  says  Master 
Will,  with  great  dignity. 

"  None — none  1 " 

"  Because  we  are  engaged,"  adds  Will,  with  the  air  of  an 
emperor. 

Kate  suddenly  fires  up  at  these  words,  and  exclaims  in 
dignantly  : 

"  My  goodness  !  aint  you  ashamed,  Willie  ?  " 

"  Not  engaged  !  "  cries  Will. 

"  No — never,"  says  Kate,  with  a  charming  little  pout 
i(  and  if  we  were,  do  you  think  I  would  acknowledge  it,  and 
have  the  servants  talking  about  me  like  cousin  Clare  ?  " 

At  which  speech  the  whole  company  burst  into  laughter 
and  a  smile  is  even  observed  to  wander  over  Mr.  Effing 
ham's  face. 

"  I  see,"  says  that  gentleman,  "  that  Miss  Clare  is  given 
to  me  by  universal  consent : — I  forgive  you,  Katy — " 

"  Oh,  cousin  Champ,  I  didn't  mean — "  commences  Kate, 
emorsefully. 


40  HOW   THEY   WENT   TO    THE   PLAY. 

"  No  matter,"  concludes  Mr.  Effinghara,  yawning, "  I  have 
only  to  observe  that  I  am  willing  to  take  Miss  Clare  or  any 
other  agreeable  young  lady  for  my  wedded  wife : — and  now, 
as  I  feel  drowsy,  I  beg  leave  of  you,  parson,  a*hd  you,  le 
spected  sir,  to  excuse  me ;  I  am  going  to  take  a  nap." 

With  which  words  Mr.  Effingham  saunters  through  tke 
door,  and  slowly  ascends  the  broad  stairs  to  ais  chamber. 
Miss  Alethea  continues  to  sew :  the  children  to  play .  the 
parson  and  his  host  to  converse  over  their  wine. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

HOW  THEY  WENT  TO  THE  PLAY. 

THE  reader  will  recollect  that  Mr.  Lee  had  promised  hii 
daughters  to  go  with  them  to  Williamsburg,  to  witness  the 
performance  of  the  "  Merchant  of  Venice"  by  those  newly- 
arrived  Virginia  Comedians,  of  whom  every  one  was  talking. 
Mr.  Champ  Effingham  had  asked  permission  to  be  one  of  the 
party,  it  will  be  remembered,  and  that  permission  had  been 
granted  by  Miss  Henrietta  with  the  merry  speech  we  have 
recorded. 

So  on  the  appointed  day,  Mr.  Effingham,  in  his  most  be 
coming  riding  suit,  and  mounted  on  his  handsomest  courser, 
made  his  appearance  at  Rivet-head. 

The  young  ladies  came  down  to  him,  already  dressed  for 
their  excursion  to  town — as  Williamsburg  was  called,  just 
as  they  called  London  "  the  Town"  in  England — and  Miss 
Henrietta  commenced  immediately  her  accustomed  amust 
ment  of  bantering  their  visitor.  She  was  radiant  in  a  dress 
of  surpassing  elegance — flowered  satin,  yellow  lace,  jewels, 
powdered  hair,  pearl  pendants,  and  rich  furbelows — and  the 
bright  beauty  of  her  laughing  face  well  assorted  with  her 
flashing  and  glittering  costume.  As  for  Clare,  her  dresa 
was  much  more  subdued,  just  as  her  manner  was  more  quiet, 
than  that  of  her  sister.  But  Mr.  Effingham,  gazing  at  her 
Buietly,  with  little  care  for  Miss  Henrietta's  sky-rockets, 


HOW  THEY  WEN.T  TO  THE  PL4Y.  41 

thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more  enchantingly  beautiful 
face  ;  so  soft  and  tender  was  it,  with  the  bright  hair  gathered 
back  from  the  temples,  and  strewed  all  over  with  its  pearly 
powder  ;  so  warm  and  red  were  the  girlish  lips ;  so  clear 
and  mild  the  large  melting  eyes.  Mr.  Effingham  began  t« 
think  seriously  of  having  in  future  a  distinct  aim  in  life — to 
make  his  own  this  fairy  creature,  who  had  thus  moved  his 
worn-out  heart,  making  him  feel  once  more  some  of  the  light 
and  joy  and  enthusiasm  of  his  boyhood — that  time  passed 
from  him,  it  really  seemed,  long  ages  ago. 

Clare  did  not  return  his  gaze,  but  busied  herself  in  turn 
ing  over  the  leaves  of  a  new  book  from  England,  with  an 
affectation  of  interest  which  was  the  merest  failure. 

Really  all  my  wit  is  thrown  away  upon  Mr.  Effingham," 
said  Henrietta  suddenly,  with  a  beautiful  pout ;  "  he  has 
not  done  me  the  honor  to  listen,  I  believe — my  last  question 
waiting  a  reply  from  him." 

Mr.  Effingham  waked  up,  so  to  speak,  and  turned  round. 

"  What  did  you  say,  my  dear  cousin  ? "  he  asked  indif 
ferently. 

"  I  say  that  my  cousin,  Mr.  Effingham,  is  the  most  affected 
personage  I  have  ever  known." 

"  I  affected !  You  have  made  that  charge  once  before. 
But  what  was  your  question  ?  " 

"  I  asked  where  you  procured  that  ridiculous  little  muff 
there  on  the  settee,  which  you  threw  down  so  carelessly  OD 
entering." 

"  In  London,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  concisely. 

"  And  are  the  London  gallants  such  apers  of  the  ladies 
as  to  wear  them  ?  " 

" I  don't  know;  they  are  used." 

"  And  you  imitate  them  ?  " 

"  I  imitate  nobody,  my  dear  cousin  Henrietta ;  it  is  too 
troublesome.  I  do  not  wear  a  coat,  or  powder  my  hair,  or 
use  ruffles  from  a  desire  to  imitate  any  one." 

"  I  don't  think  you  do  ;  for  I  never  saw  such  prepos 
terous  ruffles  in  my  life." 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  languid  indifferuece. 

"  Or  such  red  cheeks." 

"  What  of  them  ?  " 

"  They  are  as  rosy  as  a  girl's." 


f  HOW  THEY  WENT  TO  THE  PLAT. 

"  Your  own  are  more  so,  and  I  think  cousin  Clare's  mor\ 
BO  still,"  returned  Mr.  Effingham ;  "  but  let  us  dismiss  the 
subject  of  ruffles  and  roses,  and  come  to  the  play.  Do  you 
anticipate  much  pleasure  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  delightful !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Henrietta, 
always  ready  to  run  off  upon  any  subject  which  afforded  her 
an  opportunity  to  pour  out  her  spirits  and  gayety. 

"  And  you,  cousin  Clare — do  you  think  these  Virginia 
Comedians,  as  they  call  themselves,  will  afford  you  a  very 
pleasant  entertainment  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes — I'm  sure  I  shall  be  pleased, — you  know  I  have 
never  seen  a  play." 

"  But  read  a  plenty  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  :  and  I  like  the  '  Merchant  of  Venice '  very 
much.  The  character  of  Portia  is  so  delicate  and  noble." 

"  Quite  true — an  excellent  criticism  :  better  than  any 
thing  in  Congreve,  I  think,  though  I  should  hesitate  to  ad 
vance  such  an  opinion  in  London." 

"  Who  will  act  Portia  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  :  but  can  tell  you  without  much  difficulty. 
Here  is  a  play-bill  which  I  sent  to  town  for  yesterday." 

And  Mr.  Effingham  drew  daintily  from  his  coat  pocket  a 
small  roughly-printed  handbill,  which  he  spread  out  before 
the  eyes  of  Clare. 

"  '  Virginia  Company  of  Comedians,'  "  he  read,  "  '  by 
permission  of  his  worship  the  Mayor — in  the  Old  Theatre 
near  the  Capitol,  Thursday  evening — a  tragedy  called  "  The 
Merchant  of  Venice,"  by  Mr.  William  Shakespeare — boxes 
seven  shillings  sixpence — vivat  Rex  et  Kegina — '  here  it  is  : 
— '  Shylock,  Mr.  Pugsby — Portia,  Miss  Beatrice  Hallam  : ' 
The  part  of  Portia  is  to  be  performed  by  Miss  Beatrice  Hal- 
lam — I  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  her." 

"  Which  means,"  said  Henrietta,  laughing,  "  that  Miss 
Beatrice  cannot  be  very  well  worth  going  to  see,  as  Mr. 
Champ  Effingham,  just  from  London,  and  conversant  with 
all  the  celebrities  there,  ha&  never  heard  of  her  existence." 

"  My  dear  cousin  Henrietta,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  lan 
guidly,  "  you  really  seem  to  sit  in  judgment  on  my  wearisome 
conversation.  I  do  not  profess  to  know  any  thing  about  cele 
brities  :  true,  I  very  frequently  lounged  into  the  theatres  iu 
IiQndon,  but  I  assure  you,  took  very  little  interest  iu  the  playi 


HOW    THEY    WENT    TO   THE    PLAT.  4fl 

or  performers.  Life  itself  is  enough  of  a  comedy  for  me,  and 
I  want  nothing  more.  I  know  nothing  of  Miss  Hallam — 
she  may  be  a  new  witch  of  Endor,  or  as  beautiful  as  Cleo 
patra,  queen  of  Egypt,  for  all  that  I  know.  That  I  have 
not  heard  of  her  proves  nothing — the  best  actors  and  ac 
tresses  are  often  treated  with  neglect  and  indifference." 

"  Well,"  said  Clare,  smiling,  "  we  shall  soon  see  for  our 
selves,  for  there  is  papa  corning,  all  ready  dressed  to  go,  and 
I  hear  the  wheels  of  the  chariot." 

Mr.  Emngham  took  up  his  muff. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Henrietta,  "  how  do  you  carry  that  funny 
little  thing  while  riding  ? — it's  smaller  than  mine." 

"  I  swing  it  on  my  arm,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham,  indif 
ferently. 

"  Let  me  relieve  you  of  it — all  the  girls  will  then  be 
admiring  my  new  London  muff." 

"  No,  thank  you.     I  will  not  trouble  you." 

"  Oh,  here  is  papa,"  said  Clare.     Mr.  Lee  entered. 

"  Good  morning,  Champ,"  he  said,  in  his  strong,  hearty 
voice,  "  how  is  your  good  father  ?  have  you  dined  ?  Yes  ? 
Then  let  us  get  on  to  town.  We  have  no  time  to  lose,  as  the 
play  commences,  I  am  informed,  at  seven." 

With  which  words  the  worthy  gentleman  led  the  way  to 
the  door,  where  the  large  chariot,  with  its  four  pawing  horses 
and  liveried  coachman,  awaited  them.  Mr.  Emngham  assist 
ed  the  ladies  in  with  great  elegance  and  gallantry.  After 
performing  this  social  duty,  he  made  a  slight  bow,  and  waa 
going  toward  his  horse. 

"  Come,  take  a  place  in  the  chariot,"  said  Mr.  Lee. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  cried  the  lively  Henrietta, "  don't  go  prancing 
along  out  there,  where  I  can't  get  at  you  to  tease  you. 
There's  room  enough  for  a  dozen  in  here." 

"  No,  no,  my  horse  would  get  impatient." 

Mr.  Emngham  was  waiting  for  Clare  to  invite  him  to 
enter,  and  no  one  who  looked  at  his  face,  and  witnessed  his 
tell-tale  gaze  could  doubt  it.  Clare  stole  a  glance  at  him, 
and  said,  with  a  slight  blush, 

"  There's  plenty  of  room." 

Mr.  Effingham  took  two  steps  toward  the  chariot 

u  But  my  horse,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Lee  called  to  a  servant,  and  ordered  him  to  take  tb« 


44  THE   OLD    THEATRE   NEAR    THE    CAPITOL. 

animal  to  the  stable.  Mr.  Effinghara  then  yielded — he  only 
wanted  the  excuse,  indeed — and  entering  the  chariot,  waa 
about  to  sit  down  by  the  old  gentleman,  opposite  the  young 
girls. 

"Ah  !  take  care !"  cried  Mr.  Lee,  with  a  hearty  and  sudden 
laugh,  "  my  glasses  are  on  the  seat  1  " 

Henrietta  laughed  too,  and  said,  moving  near  to  her  side 
of  the  carriage,  and  making  room, 

"  Come !  you  may  ride  between  us — mayn't  he,  Clary  ? 
there's  plenty  of  room  for  a  bodkin." 

Mr.  Effingham  plainly  had  no  objection,  and,  as  before,  in 
the  matter  of  riding  within  or  without,  waited  for  Clare's 
manifesto  on  the  subject.  This  time  he  would  have  been  sa 
tisfied  with  a  simple  glance  granting  him  permission — so  very 
reasonable  was  this  gentleman  at  bottom — but  unfortunately 
Clare  did  not  invite  him,  either  with  her  lips  or  eyes.  The 
consequence  was  that  Mr.  Effingham  refused  Henrietta's  in 
vitation,  with  a  graceful  wave  of  his  muff-ornamented  arm, 
and  the  glasses  of  the  old  gentleman  having  been  transferred 
from  the  seat  to  his  nose,  gently  subsided  into  the  softly- 
cushioned  space  left  free  for  him,  smoothing  his  ruffles,  and 
arranging  delicately  the  drop-curls  of  his  powdered  peruke. 

The  chariot  rolled  on,  then,  with  dignified  slowness,  to 
ward  "  Town  " — that  is  to  say,  the  imperial  metropolis  of 
Virginia,  then,  and  now,  known  as  Williamsburg. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE  OLD  THEATRE  NEAR  THE  CAPITOL, 

THE  "  old  Theatre  near  the  Capitol,"  discoursed  of  in  the 
manifesto  issued  by  Mr.  Manager  Hallam,  was  so  far  old, 
that  the  walls  were  well-browned  by  time,  and  the  shutters 
to  the  windows  of  a  pleasant  neutral  tint  between  rust  and 
dust  color.  The  building  had  no  doubt  been  used  for  the 
present  purpose  in  bygone  times,  before  the  days  of  the 
."  Virgieia  Gazette,"  which  is  our  authority  for  many  of  the 


THE  OLD  THEATRE  NEAR  THE  CAPITOL.         45 

facts  here  stated,  and  in  relation  to  the  "  Virginia  Company 
of  Comedians  " — but  of  the  former  companies  of  "  players,' 
as  my  lord  Hamlet  calls  them,  and  their  successes  or 
misfortunes,  printed  words  tell  us  nothing,  as  far  as  the 
researches  of  the  present  Chronicle  extend.  That  there 
had  been  such  companies  before,  however,  we  repeat,  there 
is  some  reason  to  believe ;  else  why  that  addition  "  old " 
applied  to  the  "  Theatre  near  the  Capitol."  The  question 
is  submitted  to  the  future  social  historians  of  the  Old  Do 
minion. 

Within,  the  play-house  presented  a  somewhat  more 
attractive  appearance.  There  was  "  box,"  "  pit,"  and  *  gal 
lery."  as  in  our  own  day ;  and  the  relative  prices  were  ar 
ranged  in  much  the  same  manner.  The  common  mortals — 
gentlemen  and  ladies — were  forced  to  occupy  the  boxes 
raised  slightly  above  the  level  of  the  stage,  and  hemmed  in 
by  velvet-cushioned  railings, — in  front,  a  flower-decorated 
panel,  extending  all  around  the  house, — and  for  this  posi 
tion  were  moreover  compelled  to  pay  an  admission  fee  of 
seven  shillings  and  sixpence.  The  demigods — so  to  speak — 
occupied  a  more  eligible  position  in  the  "  pit,"  from  which 
they  could  procure  a  highly  excellent  view  of  the  actors' 
feet  and  ankles,  just  on  a  level  with  their  noses :  to  concili 
ate  the  demigods,  this  superior  advantage  had  been  offered, 
and  the  price  for  them  was,  further  still,  reduced  to  five 
shillings.  But  "  the  gods  "  in  truth  were  the  real  favorites 
of  the  maaager.  To  attract  them,  he  arranged  the  high 
upper  "  gallery  " — and  left  it  untouched,  unincumbered  by 
railing  or  velvet  cushions,  or  any  other  device :  all  was  free 
space,  and  liberal  as  the  air  :  there  were  no  troublesome 
seats  for  "  the  gods,"  and  three  shillings  and  nine  pence  was 
all  that  the  managers  would  demand.  The  honor  of  their 
presence  was  enough. 

From  the  boxes  a  stairway  led  down  to  the  stage,  and 
some  rude  scenes,  visible  at  the  edges  of  the  green  curtain, 
completed  the  outline. 

When  Mr.  Lee  and  his  daughters  entered  the  box  which 
had  been  reserved  for  them,  next  to  the  stage,  the  house 
was  nearly  full,  and  the  neatness  of  the  edifice  was  lost  sight 
of  in  the  sea  of  brilliant  ladies'  faces,  and  strong  forms  of 
cavaliers,  which  extended — Uk«  a  line  of  glistening  foam— 


46  THB   OLD   THEATEK   NEAR   THE    CAPITOL. 

around  the  semicircle  of  the  boxes.  The  pit  was  occupied 
by  well-dressed  men  of  the  lower  class,  as  the  times  had  it, 
and  from  the  gallery  proceeded  hoarse  murmurs  and  the  un- 
forgotten  slang  of  London. 

Many  smiles  and  bows  were  interchanged  between  the 
parties  in  the  different  boxes ;  and  the  young  gallants,  follow 
ing  the  fashion  of  the  day,  gathered  at  each  end  of  the 
stage,  and  often  walked  across,  to  exchange  some  polite 
speech  with  the  smiling  dames  in  the  boxes  nearest. 

Mr.  Champ  Effingham  was.  upon  the  whole,  much  the 
most  notable  fop  present ;  and  his  elegant,  languid,  petit 
maitrc  air,  as  he  strolled  across  the  stage,  attracted  many 
remarks,  not  invariably  favorable.  It  was  observed,  how 
ever,  that  when  the  Virginia-bred  youths,  with  honest  plain 
ness,  called  him  "  ridiculous,"  the  young  ladies,  their  com 
panions,  took  Mr.  Effingham's  part,  and  defended  him  with 
great  enthusiasm.  Only  when  they  returned  home,  Mr. 
Effin^ham  was  more  unmercifully  criticised  than  he  would 
otherwise  have  been. 

A  little  bell  rang,  and  the  orchestra,  represented  by  three 
or  four  foreign-looking  gentlemen,  bearded  and  moustached, 
entered  with  trumpet  and  violin.  The  trumpets  made  the 
roof  shake,  indifferently,  in  honor  of  the  Prince  of  Morocco, 
or  King  Richard,  or  any  other  worthy  whose  entrance  was 
marked  in  the  play-book  "  with  a  flourish."  But  before  the 
orchestra  ravished  the  ears  of  every  one,  the  manager  came 
forward,  in  the  costume  of  Bassanio,  and  made  a  low  bow. 
Mr.  Hallam  was  a  fat  little  man,  of  fifty  or  fifty-five,  with  a 
rubicund  and  somewhat  sensual  face,  and  he  expressed 
extraordinary  delight  at  meeting  so  many  of  the  "  noble 
aristocracy  of  the  great  and  noble  colony  of  Virginia," 
assembled  to  witness  his  very  humble  representation.  It 
would  be  the  chief  end  and  sole  ambition  of  his  life,  he  said, 
to  please  the  gentry,  who  so  kindly  patronized  their  servants 
— himself  and  his  associates — and  then  the  smiling  worthy 
concluded  by  bowing  lower  than  before.  Much  applaust 
from  the  pit  and  gallery,  and  murmurs  of  approbation  from 
the  well-bred  boxes,  greeted  this  address,  and,  the  orchestra 
having  struck  up,  the  curtain  slowly  rolled  aloft.  The  young 
gallants  scattered  to  the  corners  of  the  stage — seating  them 
selves  oo  stools  or  chairs,  or  standing,  and  the 


IN  THE  SQUIRE'S  BOX.  47 

of  Venice  "  commenced.  Bassanio  having  assumed  a  digni 
fied  and  lofty  port,  criticised  Gratiano  with  courteous  and 
lordly  wit :  his  friend  Antonio  offered  him  his  fortune  with 
grand  magnanimity,  in  a  loud  singing  voice,  worthy  the 
utmost  commendation,  and  the  first  act  proceeded  on  its  way 
in  triumph. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

IN  THE  SQUIBE'S  BOX. 

THE  first  act  ended  without  the  appearance  of  Portia  or 
Nerissa  ;  the  scene  in  which  they  hold  their  confidential — 
though  public  and  explanatory — interview  having  been  omit 
ted.  The  audience  seemed  to  be  much  pleased,  and  the 
actors  received  a  grateful  guerdon  of  applause. 

In  the  box  opposite  that  one  occupied  by  Mr.  Lee  and 
his  daughters,  sat  the  squire,  Will,  and  Kate,  and — proh 
pudor ! — no  less  a  personage  than  Parson  Tag.  Let  us  not 
criticise  the  worthy  parson's  appearance  in  a  play-house,  too 
severely,  however.  Those  times  were  not  our  times,  nor 
those  men,  the  men  of  to-day.  If  parsons  drank  deep  then, 
and  hunted  Reynard,  and  not  unwillingly  took  a  hand  at 
cards, — and  they  did  all  this  and  more — why  should  they 
not  also  go  and  see  the  "  good  old  English  drama  ?  "  Cer 
tain  are  we,  that  when  the  squire  proposed  to  the  parson  a 
visit  to  town,  for  the  purpose  of  witnessing  the  performance 
of  the  "  Merchant  of  Venice," — that  worthy  made  no  sort 
of  objection  : — though  it  must  be  said,  in  justice  to  him,  also, 
that  he  expressed  some  fears  of  finding  his  time  thrown  away. 
He  now  sat  on  the  front  seat  beside  the  squire,  with  solemn 
gravity,  and  rubicund  nose,  surveying  from  his  respectable 
position  the  agitated  pit.  Miss  Alethea  had  remained  at 
home  :  but,  beside  the  squire,  Will  and  Kate  were  exchang 
ing  criticisms  on  the  splendid  novelty  they  had  just  witness 
ed.  They  remembered  it  for  years  afterwards — this,  th«jj 
oeautiful,  glittering,  glorious,  magical  first  play  1 


48  IN    THE    SQUIRE'S  BOX. 

"  Not  so  bad  as  you  predicted— eh,  parson  ?  "  said  thf 
squire.  "  I  don't  think  that  fellow  Antonio  acts  so  badly/ 

"  Very  well — very  well,"  replied  the  parson,  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  echoing  the  squire's  opinions. 

"  And  the  audience  seem  delighted.  Look  at  that 
scamp  of  a  son  of  mine,  strutting  up  to  friend  Lee's  box, 
and  smoothing  those  enormous  ruffles  like  a  turkey-cock." 

"Harmless  devices  of  youth,  sir." 

"  Yes,  and  innocent,  at  least :  he'll  reform  in  time,  sir,  1 
tell  you." 

"  Beyond  all  doubt" 

"  There's  good  in  Champ." 

"  A  most  amiable  young  man." 

"  Who  abused  your  homilies,"  laughed  the  squire. 

"  Oh !  that  is  forgotten,  my  respected  friend — a  mere 
youthful  jest — the  words  of  a  thoughtless  youth." 

The  parson  was  evidently  in  a  most  Christian  state  of 
mind,  and  had  plainly  left  his  usual  severity  at  home.  The 
fact  was,  that  the  worthy  man  felt  no  little  complaisance 
at  being  seen  the  honored  companion  of  "  one  of  the  aris 
tocracy,"  as  Mr.  Hallam  would  have  said,  in  that  public 
place.  It  flattered  him — he  thought  he  heard  the  gallery 
say  to  the  pit,  "  Who  is  that  fine-looking  gentleman  in  Squire 
Effingham's  box  ? " — and  the  pit  audibly  replied,  "  That 
is  the  Reverend  Mr.  Tag,  the  distinguished  clergyman." 

The  parson  was,  therefore,  in  a  forgiving  state  of  mind, 
and  at  that  moment  would  not  have  refused  to  agree  with 
the  squire  if  that  gentleman  had  stated  his  opinion  that 
Mr.  Efnngham's  natural  genius  and  moral  purity  were  sub* 
lime. 

Suddenly,  however,  the  parson's  face  clouded  over,  and 
catching  hold  of  the  squire's  arm,  he  said  : 

"  There,  sir  !  look  there  !  That  is  the  young  man  I  spoke 
of  Charles  Waters — below  us  1 " 

"  What  of  him  ?  " 

"  Have  you  forgotten,  sir  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  the  good-humored  squire.  "  Oh,  yes  1 
now  I  recollect,  the  young  man  who^" 

"  Has  been  propagating  those  treasonable  opinions,  sir — 
one  of  the  lower  classes  turned  statesman,  as  you  very 
eloquently  observed  1  What  business  has  he  to  be  there  ?— 


m  THE  SQUIRE'S  BOX.  49 

the  gallery  is  his  plac*»,  among  the  servants  and  laborers. 
I  wonder  he  is  not  in  the  boxes,  by  us  gentlemen  !  " 

The  squire  followed  the  indignant  finger  of  the  parson, 
and  saw  beneath  them  in  the  pit  a  young  man  clad  in  gray 
cloth,  and  gazing  with  a  thoughtful  and  fixed  look  upon 
the  curtain.  Plainly,  however,  he  was  unconscious  of  thus 
staring  out  of  countenance  the  poor  curtain — his  own 
thoughts,  it  was  evident,  pre-occupied  his  mind.  He  was  ap 
parently  twenty-two  or  three,  and  his  countenance  was  full 
:>f  truth  and  nobility : — the  hair  short,  'chestnut-colored  and 
unpowdered — the  eyes  large  and  clear, — the  mouth  firm,  but 
somewhat  sorrowful.  Altogether,  the  face  of  this  young 
man  would  have  attracted  much  attention  from  close  ob 
servers  of  character  ;  and  it  was  not  without  its  effect  on  the 
generous  mind  of  the  squire. 

"  You  may  say  what  you  please  of  young  Waters,  par 
son,"  he  said,  "  but  he's  no  fool ;  you  may  see  that  in  his 
countenance." 

"  I  fear  he  is  much  more  knave  than  fool,  honored  sir," 
said  his  companion. 

"  If  what  you  said  of  him  is  true,  he's  both,"  said  the 
bluff  squire,  suddenly  recollecting  the  young  man's  alleged 
opinions  on  education,  "  but  let  him  go — we  came  here  to 
be  amused — and  I  shall  not  talk  politics.  Come,  let  us  ques 
tion  the  juveniles  here.  How  did  you  like  the  play,  Kate, 
was  it  pretty  ?  " 

Kate  clapped  her  hands,  and  said : 

"  Oh,  lovely,  papa ! " 

"And  you,  Will?" 

"  Pretty  good,"  said  Master  Will,  endeavoring  to  smooth 
his  modest  ruffles  after  the  manner  of  his  brother  Champ, 
whom  he  secretly  admired  and  venerated  as  the  model  of  a 
gentleman  and  cavalier.  "  I  think  it's  pretty  well,  sir — but 
not  up  to  my  anticipations — hum !  " 

"  My  goodness,  Willie !  "  cried  Kate,  in  the  midst  of  the 
squire's  laughter  at  this  magniloquent  speech,  "  you  just  said 
to  me  a  minute  ago  that  you  were  delighted." 

"  I  said  so  to  satisfy  you,"  said  Master  Will,  grandly. 

"  To  satisfy  me,  indeed  ! " 

"  Yes.     I  never  argue  with  women." 

The  squire  seemed  much  delighted  with  this  ppeeoh,  and 
3 


BO  Hi  THE  SQUIRE'S  BOX. 

endeavoring  to  command  his  risible  muscles,  asked  Kate 
"  what  she  had  to  reply  to  that  ?  " 

"  He  says  he  never  argues  with  women  !"  answered  Kate, 
pouting  and  shaking  her  little  fresh-looking  head  up  and 
down,  "  never  mind  1  I'll  catch  him  at  it  before  long.  Never 
argues  with  women  1 "  adds  Kate,  "  as  if  he  was  not  arguing 
with  me  all  the  time  'most !  " 

"  Let  us  dismiss  the  subject,"  says  Will,  gently  caressing 
his  upper  lip  as  Mr.  Champ  was  doing  opposite,  "  if  that's 
the  way  you're  going  on  when  we  are  married,  I'll  have  a 
time  of  it." 

"  I  won't  marry  you !  "  says  Kate,  "  to  be  quarrelling  all 
the  time — " 

"  I  quarrel !  " 

"  Yes  !  "  pouts  Kate,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  I  won't  any  more,"  says  Will,  descending  from  his 
heroics,  and  endeavoring  to  make  friends  j  ''  don't  cry,  Kate. 
You  know  how  devoted  I  am  to  you — " 

"  I  won't  be  friends  1  " 

"  Now,  Kate ! " 

"  You  needn't  be  squeezing  my  hand." 

"  I'll  get  you  the  silk  for  Carlo's  foot" 

"  Will  you  ?  " 

'  Yes,  from  cousin  Clare." 

"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  This  very  night." 

"  Then,"  says  Kate,  smiling,  "  I  won't  quarrel :  and  you 
niusn't." 

"I?  never!" 

"  How  pretty  Carlo  will  be  I " 

"  Lovely — and  we're  engaged  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  says  Kate,  absorbed  in  the  imaginary  con 
templation  of  Carlo's  foot,  "  but  hush  !  Willie,  they  are  go 
ing  on  with  the  play,  and  you  m  jsn't  be  making  love  to  me, 
you  know,  where  every  body  can  hear  you  !  " 

"  Never  1  "  says  Will,  with  Roman  dignity  and  firmness. 

The  audience  utter  a  prolonged  "  Sh-h-h-h  1  "  and  the 
curtain  rises. 


m  MR.  LEE'S  aox. 
CHAPTER   IX, 

IN  MR  LEE'S 


LET  us  return  for  a  moment  to  the  box  occupied  by  Mr.  Lee 
and  his  daughters.  At  the  end  of  the  first  act  Mr.  Effing- 
ham  left  his  companions,  with  whom  he  had  been  interchang 
ing  remarks  during  the  performance,  to  the  great  disgust  of 
the  pit,  and  sauntered  to  the  side  of  Miss  Clare  Lee,  who 
sat  nearest  the  stage.  Clare  was  radiant  with  pleasure  :  she 
had  never  seen  a  play  before,  and  it  was  therefore  as  much 
of  a  novelty  to  her  as  to  little  Kate.  Never  had  she  looked 
more  beautiful,  with  her  bright  eyes  and  soft  rosy  cheeks  — 
and  this  fact  probably  occurred  to  Mr.  Effingham  :  for  his 
gaze  betrayed  unmistakable  admiration.  No  one,  however, 
would  have  discovered  it  from  his  manner,  which  was  as  full 
of  languor  as  ever. 

"  How  does  my  fair  cousin  relish  the  performance  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Oh  !  I  was  never  more  pleased  with  any  thing,"  said 
Clare,  "  and  how  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Tolerably  :  but  I  never  had  a  very  great  relish  for  these 
things  —  " 

"  Because,  to  wit,  life  itself  is  a  comedy,"  said  Henrietta, 
laughing. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  "  and  a  very  brilliant  one  it 
would  be,  if  all  the  world  were  Miss  Henriettas.  I  hope, 
my  dear  cousin,  that  compliment  is  sufficiently  broad." 

"  T.hank  you,  sir  —  I  know  how  to  take  your  fine  speeches  : 
don't  think  they  deceive  me." 

"  There  !  you  have  it,  Champ,"  said  Mr.  Lee,  who  turned 
round  to  greet  a  neighbor  who  had  just  entered. 

'*  I'm  rather  a  poor  hand  at  compliments,"  replied  Mr. 
Effingham,  "  but  really  it  is  hard  to  do  you  the  injustice,  my 
fair  cousin,  of  withholding  them.  Come  !  no  reply,  for  I 
see  cousin  Clare  is  going  to  say  something  more  flattering 
than  what  you  are  about  to  utter." 

Clare  laughed,  and  said,  blushing  slightly  : 


52  IN  MB..  LEE'S  BOX. 

"  Oh,  no  1  I  was  going  to  say  only  that  Shylock  realty 
frightened  me." 

"  It  was  very  well  done,  much  like  Shuter  at  Castle  Gar 
den,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  "how  did  you  like  it,  cousin  Hen 
rietta  ?  Come,  your  criticism." 

"  Oh,  what  could  you  expect  from  a  mere  country  girl 
like  me  ?  Besides,  there  is  Mr.  Hamilton,  my  devoted  ad 
mirer,  coming  to  speak  to  me." 

Mr.  Hamilton,  the  fox-hunter,  entered  and  took  his  seat, 
and  Henrietta  was  now  engaged  in  a  laughing  and  animated 
conversation. 

"  How  I  envy  them,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  applying  to 
his  nostrils,  with  a  listless  air,  a  delicate  pinch  of  snuff, 
"  they  are  so  gay." 

"  Why  are  you  not  gay,  cousin  Champ  ?  "  said  Clare,  in  a 
timid  voice,  "  you  have  no  reason  to  be  sad." 

"  No — I  do  not  say  I  have  any  reason.  But  I  am  out 
of  sorts." 

"  Why  are  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Effingham  leaning  over  the  velvet  cushion,  and 
speaking  in  a  tone  audible  to  no  one  besides  himself  and 
Clare,  replied : 

"  I  am  out  of  sorts,  because  I  am  rusting." 

"  Busting ! " 

C(  Yes,  more  than  rusting.  I  take  interest  in  scarcely 
any  thing — I  am  wearied  to  death  with  every  thing — what  is 
life  worth  ?  Here  are  some  hundreds  of  persons,  and  they 
all  seem  delighted  with  this  play,  which  tires  me  to  death 
I  take  no  interest  in  it.  Shylock  and  Antonio  strut  and 
spout  without  amusing  me — I  am  already  weary,  and  every 
body  else  seems  to  be  impatient  for  the  reappearance  of 
those  wonders.  Why  are  they  so  much  amused  ?  For  my 
part,  I  am  sick  of  all  this,  and  only  stay,"  Mr.  Effingham 
added,  lowering  his  voice,  "  because  you  stay.  The  nearest 
approach  to  happiness  I  make,  is  in  your  presence." 

Clare  blushed  this  time  in  earnest,  and  yet,  gathering 
self-possession,  looked  into  Mr.  Effingham's  face  and  smiled. 

'"  How  beautiful  you  are  1 "  he  said  with  profound  ear 
nestness. 

"  Oh,"  said  Clare,  the  co?or  of  a  peoviy,  "  you  are  jesting 
with  me." 


IN  MR.  LEE'S  BO*.  SS 

"  I  am  not  jesting." 

"  Well,  don't  say  any  thing  to  make  m »  feel  so  a^ain — I 
feel  as  if  my  face  was  as  red  as  fire." 

There  was  so  much  childlike  frankness  in  the  tone  with 
which  these  words  were  uttered,  that  Mr.  Effingham  felt  his 
heart  leaving  him,  and  going  quickly  into  the  possession  of 
the  owner  of  the  red  cheeks.  Yet  strange  to  say,  he  felt  no 
pain,  but  rather  pleasure. 

"  I  really  believe  I  am  growing  less  tired  of  the  play,  and 
all, "  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  smile  :  then  added  aloud : 

"  I  really  think  you  could  charm  away  my  misanthropy 
and  melancholy,  if  you  desired,  cousin." 

"How,  pray?" 

"  By  smiling  at  me." 

Clare  smiled : 

"  There,"  she  said,  "  be  merry,  then.  Indeed,  cousin,  you 
could  become  gay  again,  if  you  chose.  Do  not  determine  to 
find  fault  with  every  thing — and  think  every  thing  weari 
some.  Seek  novelty :  you  say  that  all  here  seem  to  take 
pleasure  in  the  play,  while  you  do  not.  They  are  pleased 
because  it  is  new  to  them. — I  have  never  seen  a  play,  and  I 
am  highly  pleased.  If  you  have  been  often  to  theatres,  there 
is  nothing  strange  in  your  thinking  this  poor  one  excellent 
— though  it  seems  beautiful  to  me.  But  you  will  find  no 
velty  and  interest  in  other  things.  Try  it,  now,  and  see  if  my 
philosophy  is  not  true." 

The  softness  and  earnestness  in  the  tender  voice  of  the 
young  girl,  and  the  interest  in  himself  betrayed  by  her  tone, 
was  so  plain  that  Mr.  Effingham  felt  his  languid  heart  beat 

"  I  know  but  one  means,"  he  said. 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  To  have  a  companion." 

"  A  companion  ?  " 

His  meaning  suddenly  flashed  upor  her,  and  she  turned 
away  her  head. 

"  To  have  the  philosopher  always  near  me"  said  Mr. 
Effingham,  imprisoning  in  his  own  the  hand  which  rested  on 
the  railing. 

The  head  was  turned  further  away. 

"  Clare  ! — dearest  Clare  1 "  he  whispered,  '  if  you  taka 
Bu«h  a  tender  interest  in  my  welfare — why  not — " 


M  ACTRESS   AND    GENTLEMAN. 

"  Sh — h — h — h  I  "  came  in  a  long  murmur  from  the  atfc 
dience. 

"  True,"  muttered  Mr.  Emngham,  turning  away,  "  how 
ridiculous,  here  in  the  theatre  1 " 

Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  upon  one  of  the  actresses,  and  he 
almost  uttered  an  exclamation.  It  was  the  unknown  lady 
of  the  wood. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ACTRESS  AND  GENTLEMAN. 

THE  unknown  lady  was  no  gentle  Virginia  maiden,  no  "lady,' 
as  she  had  said,  with  perfect  calmness,  at  their  meeting  in  the 
wood — only  one  of  the  company  of  Comedians.  Her  singular 
expression  when  she  uttered  the  words, "  I  think  you  will  see 
me  again,"  occurred  to  the  young  man,  and  he  wondered  that 
this  easy  solution  of  the  riddle  had  not  occurred  to  him  at  once. 

What  was  her  name  ?  Mr.  Effingham  drew  forth  his 
bill,  and  saw  opposite  the  name  of  Portia,  Miss  Beatrice 
Hallam. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "  the  same  we  were  spe 
culating  upon,  this  morning.  Let  us  see  how  Portia  looks, 
and  what  change  the  foot-lights  work  in  her  face." 

He  sat  down  in  the  corner  of  the  stage  upon  a  wicker 
chair,  and  scanned  Portia  critically.  Her  costume  was 
faultless.  It  consisted  of  a  gown  and  underskirt  of^-fewn- 
colored  silk,  trimmed  with  silver,  and  a  single  band  of  gold 
encircled  each  wrist,  clearly  relieved  against  the  white, 
finely-rounded  arm.  Her  hair,  which  was  a  beautiful  chest 
nut,  had  been  carried  back  from  the  temples  and  powdered, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  time,  and  around  her  beautiful, 
Bwan-like  neck,  the  young  woman  wore  a  necklace  of  pearls 
of  rare  brilliance.  Thus  the  costume  of  the  character  defied 
criticism,  and  Mr.  Effingham  passed  en  to  the  face  and 
figure.  These  we  have  already  described.  The  countenance 
of  Beatrice  Hallam  wore  the  same  simple,  yet  firm  and 
collected  expression,  which  Mr.  Effingham  had  observed  in 


ACTRESS   AND    GENTLEMAN.  55 

their  first  interview,  and  her  figure  had  the  same  indefinable 
grace  and  beauty.  Every  movement  which  she  made  might 
have  suited  a  royal  palace,  and  in  her  large  brilliant  eyea 
Mr.  Effingham  in  vain  sought  the  least  trace  of  confusion. 
She  surveyed  the  audience,  while  the  Prince  of  Morocco 
was  uttering  his  speech,  with  perfect  simplicity,  but  her  eyes 
not  for  a  single  moment  rested  on  the  young  men  collected 
at  the  corners  of  the  stage.  For  her  they  seemed  to  have 
no  existence,  and  she  turned  to  the  Prince  again.  Thai 
gentleman  having  uttered  his  prescribed  number  of  lines, 
Portia  advanced  graciously  toward  him,  and  addressed  him. 
Her  carelessness  was  gone ;  she  no  longer  displayed  either 
indifference  or  coldness.  She  was  the  actress,  with  her  role 
to  sustain.  She  commenced  in  a  voice  of  noble  and  queen- 
like  courtesy,  a  voice  of  pure  music,  and  clear  utterance,  so 
to  speak,  such  as  few  lips  possess  the  power  of  giving  forth. 
Every  word  rang  and  told ;  there  was  no  hurry,  no  slurring, 
no  hesitation ;  it  was  not  an  actress  delivering  a  set  speech, 
but  the  noble  Portia  doing  the  honors  of  her  beautiful 
palace  of  Belmont.  The  scene  ended  with  great  applause — 
the  young  woman  had  evidently  produced  a  most  favorable 
impression  on  the  audience.  But  she  seemed  wholly  un 
conscious  of  this  compliment,  and  made  her  exit  quite 
calmly. 

A  buzz  ran  through  the  theatre :  the  audience  were  dis 
cussing  the  merits  of  Portia.  On  the  stage,  too,  she  was  the 
subject  of  many  comments ;  and  this  continued  until  Lance 
lot  made  his  appearance  and  went  through  his  speech. 
Then  Portia's  reappearance  with  the  Prince  was  greeted  with 
great  "applause. 

Mr.  Effingham  leaned  forward  and  touched  the  young 
woman's  sleeve. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  with  easy  carelessness,  and  scarcely 
moderating  his  voice,  "come,  fair  Portia,  while  that  tire 
some  fellow  is  making  his  speech,  talk  to  me  a  little.  We 
are  old  acquaintances — and  you  are  indebted  to  me  for  direct 
ing  you  home." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Beatrice,  turning  her  head  slightly, 
"  but  pardon  me — I  have  my  part  to  attend  to." 

"  I  don't  care." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir — but  I  do." 


89  4CTRESS    AND    GENTLEMAN. 

"  Reaily,  madam,  you  are  very  stiff  for  an  actress.  Is 
it  so  very  unusual  a  thing  to  ask  a  moment's  conversation  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  it  is  the  fashion  in  London  and  elsewhere, 
•ir,  but  I  dislike  it.  It  destroys  my  conception  of  the  char 
acter,"  she  said,  calmly. 

Mr.  Emngham  laughed. 

"  Come  here  and  talk  to  me,"  he  said,  "  did  you  not  say 
we  should  meet  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.     And  I  also  said  that  I  was  not  a  lady." 

"  Well — what  is  the  meaning  of  that  addition?" 

"  It  means,  sir,  that  being  an  actress,  I  am  not  at  liberty 
to  amuse  myself  here  as  I  might  were  I  a  lady  in  a  drawing- 
room.  Pardon  me,  sir,"  she  added  calmly,  "  I  am  neglect 
ing  what  I  have  engaged  to  do,  play  Portia." 

And  the  young  woman  quietly  disengaging  her  sleeve 
from  Mr.  Effingham's  fingers,  moved  away  to  another  por 
tion  of  the  stage. 

"  Here  is  a  pretty  affair,"  said  Mr.  Emngham  to  him 
self,  as  he  fell  back,  languidly,  into  the  chair,  from  which, 
however,  he  had  not  deigned  to  rise  wholly  when  addressing 
the  young  actress,  "  what  are  things  coming  to  when  an 
actress  treats  a  gentleman  in  this  manner.  I  really  believe 
the  girl  thinks  I  am  not  good  enough  for  her :  '  Pardon  me, 
sir ! '  was  there  ever  such  insufferable  prudery  and  affecta 
tion  !  No  doubt  she  wishes  to  catch  me,  and  commences 
with  this  piquant  piece  of  acting.  Or  perhaps,"  added  the 
elegant  young  gentleman,  smoothing  his  frill,  "  she  fell  iu 
love  with  me  the  other  day,  when  we  met,  and  is  afraid  she 
will  betray  herself.  Not  talk  when  I  desire  to  talk  with 
her,  indeed — and  yonder  all  those  people  have  seen  her 
cavalier  treatment  of  me,  and  are  laughing  at  me.  For 
tunately  I  am  proof  against  their  jeers — come,  come,  let 
us  see  if  Miss  Portia  will  treat  me  as  badly  next  time." 

Portia  entered  next  with  the  Prince  of  Arragon,  and 
while  that  gentleman  was  addressing  the  caskets,  Mr. 
Emngham  again  applied  himself  to  the  task  of  forcing  the 
young  woman  to  converse  with  him. 

"  Why  did  you  treat  me  so,  just  now  ? "  he  said,  with 
abrupt  carelessness. 

"  How,  sir  ?  " 

"  You  refused  to  talk  to  me." 


ACTRESS   AND    GENTLEMAN.  57 

"  I  had  my  part  to  perform." 

"  That  is  no  excuse." 

"  Besides,  sir,"  added  the  young  woman,  surveying  Mr 
Effingham  with  an  indifferent  glance,  "  I  know  you  only 
very  slightly." 

"  Know  me  only  slightly,"  cried  Mr.  Effingham,  affecting 
surprise. 

"  A  chance  meeting  is  very  slight  acquaintance,  sir ; 
but  I  offer  this  as  no  apology  for  refusing  to  do  what  I 
am  now  doing — converse  with  you  on  the  stage." 

"  Really,  one  would  say  you  were  a  queen  speaking  to  a 
subject,  instead  of  an  actress — " 

"  Honored  with  the  attentions  of  a  gentleman,  you  would 
add,  sir,"  she  interrupted,  quite  calmly. 

"  As  you  please." 

"  Pray,  speak  to  me  no  more,  sir — I  forget  my  part. 
And  the  audience  are  looking  at  you." 

"  Let  them." 

"  I  see  some  angry  faces,"  said  the  young  woman,  look 
ing  at  Charles  Waters,  "  they  do  not  understand  the  fashions 
of  London,  sir." 

"  What  care  I." 

"  Please  release  my  sleeve,  sir — that  is  my  line." 

The  gallery  uttered  a  prolonged  hiss  as  Portia  disen 
gaged  her  arm.  Mr.  Effingharn  turned  round  disdainfully, 
and  looked  up  to  the  gallery  from  which  the  hiss  came 
This  glance  of  haughty  defiance  might  have  provoked  an 
other  exhibition  of  the  same  sort,  but  Portia  at  that  moment 
commenced  her  speech. 

Thereafter  the  young  woman  came  no  more  near  Mr. 
Effingham,  and  treated  that  gentleman's  moody  glances  with 
supreme  disregard.  What  was  going  on  in  Mr.  Effingham's 
mind,  and  why  did  he  lose  some  of  his  careless  listlessness 
when,  clasping  her  beautiful  hands,  the  lovely  girl,  raising  hei 
eyes  to  heaven,  like  one  of  the  old  Italian  pictures,  uttered 
that  sublime  discourse  on  the  "  quality  of  mercy  "  ?  and 
how  did  it  happen  that,  when  she  sobbed,  almost,  in  that  ten 
der,  magical  voice, — 

"  But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptered  sway, 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings— * 
It  is  an  attribute  of  God  himself  1 "— 


58  ACTRESS    AND    GENTLEMAN. 

how  did  it  chance  that  Mr.  Effingham  led  the  enthusiasts 
applause,  and  absolutely  rose  erect  in  the  excess  of  his  en 
thusiasm  ? 

As  she  passed  him  in  going  out,  he  made  her  a  low  bow, 
and  said,  "  Pardon  me  1  you  are  a  great  actress  !  "  A  single 
glance,  and  a  calm  movement  of  the  head,  were  the  only 
reply  to  this  speech ;  and  with  this  Mr.  Effingham  was  com 
pelled  to  remain  content. 

He  returned  to  the  side  of  Clare,  thoughtful  and  pre 
occupied. 

"  What  were  they  hissing  for  ?  "  asked  Clare,  from  whom 
the  scene  we  have  related  had  been  concealed  by  the  projec 
tion  of  the  wall,  and  the  group  of  young  men.  Indeed, 
scarcely  any  portion  of  the  audience  had  witnessed  it,  the 
gallery  excepted,  which  overlooked  the  whole  stage  from  its 
great  height 

"  Some  folly  which  deserved  hissing,  probably,"  returned 
Mr.  Effingham,  wondering  at  his  own  words  as  he  spoke ; 
"  but  here  are  the  actors  again." 

The  play  proceeded,  and  ended  amid  universal  applause. 
Mr.  Hallam  led  out  Portia,  in  response  to  uproarious  calls, 
and  thanked  the  audience  for  their  kindness  to  his  daughter. 
Beatrice  received  all  the  applause  with  her  habitual  calm 
ness  ;  and,  inclining  her  head  slightly,  disappeared. 

Mr.  Effingham's  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  to  the  last,  and  even 
Clare  spoke  to  him  in  vain. 

"  Bah  !  she's  a  mere  scheming  jade  1  "  he  said,  at  last, 
disdainfully,  and  almost  aloud ;  "  come,  cousin  Clare,  the 
chariot  is  ready  at  the  door.  Take  my  arm." 

And  so  the  audience  separated,  rolling,  well  pleased,  to 
their  homes.  But  why  did  Mr.  Effingham  preserve  such 
inexplicable  silence  in  the  chariot?  Why  did  Henrietta 
tell  him  that  the  performance  must  have  made  him  sleepy  ? 
Why  did  he  push  his  horse  angrily  as  he  galloped  back  from 
Biverhead  to  Effingham  Hall  ?  Was  he  thinking  of  that 
strange  Portia  ? 


MR.    EFF1NOHAM    CRIT.  JISES    THE    COMEDY  59 


CHAPTER    XI. 

ME.  EFFmGHAM    OEITICI8ES    THE    COMEDY,  BETRAYING   GREAT 
CONSISTENCY. 

THAT  night  Mr.  Effingham  paced  his  room  for  more  than 
an  hour  in  moody  thought,  troubled  and  out  of  humor,  it 
seemed,  at  something  which  had  recently  occurred.  He  kicked 
out  of  his  way  every  obstacle,  and  betrayed  other  unmista 
kable  evidences  of  ill-humor.  At  last,  this  annoyed  state 
of  mind  took  to  itself  words  and  he  muttered : 

"  An  actress,  forsooth,  to  so  treat  a  gentleman  !  making 
him  the  laughing-stock  of  every  body  by  her  insolent  airs 
of  superiority !  As  if  it  were  not  a  high  compliment  for 
me  to  address  her  at  all — a  common  Comedienne!  One 
would  really  say  that  it  was  presumption  in  me  to  speak 
to  one  so  much  my  superior.  '  Pardon  me,  sir — I  have  my 
part  to  attend  to  ! '  and  then  those  stupid  country  bumpkins 
around  me  tittering  !  Let  'em  !  I  thank  heaven  that  their 
mirth  does  not  affect  me — how  insolent  it  was  !  And  that 
hiss  from  the  knaves  in  the  gallery.  Presume  to  hiss  a  gen 
tleman  !  And  who  caused  all  this  ?  By  heaven  !  she  shall 
repent  her  insulting  hauteur.  Who  is  this  woman  who  con 
ducts  herself  in  such  a  manner  toward  a  gentleman  ?  Some  low 
woman,  the  daughter  of  that  vulgar  fellow  Hallam  :  no  lady, 
a  common  actress  1  Suppose  she  did  act  well,  and  I  don't 
mean  to  say  or  think  she  is  not  a  superior  artist.  Common 
justice  requires  me  to  acknowledge  her  genius.  But  what  of 
that  ?  Her  attitude  in  the  trial  scene  was  fine ! "  continued  Mr. 
Effingham,  thoughtfully,  forgetting  for  a  moment  his  indigna 
tion,  and  returning  in  thought  to  the  theatre.  "  How  tender  and 
noble  her  countenance !  what  music  in  her  voice  !  Never 
have  I  seen  such  purity  and  truth  upon  the  stage.  By  hea 
ven  !  she's  no  common  actress  1  and  I  had  to  tell  her  so  a» 
she  went  out !  But  how  did  she  receive  my  high  compliment," 
he  said,  returning  to  his  grievances,  "  how  did  that  respectful 
address,  '  You  are  a  great  actress,'  affect  her  ?  She  looked  at 
me  as  carelessly  and  indifferently  as  if  I  had  said  '  good  morn 
ing,'  and  inclined  her  head  with  the  eoldness  of  a 


60  MR.    EFFINGHAM    CRITICISES   THE    COMEDY. 

speaking  to  her  subject.  Damn  my  blood !  "  said  Mr.  Effing 
ham,  with  unusual  vehemence,  "  I'll  make  her  repent  it,  and 
she  shall  suffer  for  causing  me  this  annoyance.  It  is  ridicu 
lous,  pitiable,  silly :  I,  Mr.  Champ  Effingham,  of  Effing- 
ham  Hall,  to  annoy  myself  about  a  common  actress — to  b« 
treated  with  contemptuous  indifference  by  a  woman  of  hei 
grade  1 " 

And  Mr.  Champ  Effingham,  of  Effingham  Hall,  sent  an 
unfortunate  cricket  which  stood  in  his  path,  flying  across  the 
room.  The  cricket  struck  against  a  table  which  supported  a 
tall  silver  candlestick,  and  all  came  down  with  a  crash.  The 
incident  served  the  purpose  of  a  partial  vent  to  the  young 
man's  irritation,  and  after  some  more  growling  and  impreca 
tions  he  went  to  bed. 

He  made  his  appearance  at  the  breakfast-table  on  the 
next  morning  two  hours  after  the  squire  had  left  it,  and 
received  a  remonstrance  from  Miss  Alethea  on  his  late 
rising,  with  great  indifference.  Entering  the  library  there 
after,  he  found  the  squire,  who  had  just  returned,  reading 
the  "  Virginia  Gazette." 

"  Good  morning,  Champ,  lazy  as  usual,  I  see,"  said  the 
squire,  good-humoredly  ;  "  but  you  were  late  returning  from 
Riverhead,  which  is  a  good  excuse.  How  did  you  like  the 
play  ?  we  have  not  met,  you  know,  since." 

"  I  was  charmed  with  it,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  "all  but 
Portia  acted  their  parts  excellently,  I  thought." 

"All  but  Portia  /" 

Mr.  Effingham  nodded. 

"  Why,"  continued  the  squire,  "  I  thought  her  acting 
excellent." 

"  Poor,  sir — poor — very." 

"  What  fault  did  you  find — come,  Mr.  London  critic  ?" 

"  It  was  overacted." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  It  took  up  too  much  room  in  the  piece." 

"  Why  Portia  is  a  chief  character  in  the  play." 

"  Yes — but  not  the  only  one." 

"  You  are  very  critical." 

"  I  always  was." 

"  And  what  other  fault  did  you  find  ?  Was  Miss  Hallana 


MR.    EFFINGHAM   CRITICISES   THE   OOMEDT.  61 

"  No — not  ugly,  exactly — but  dreadfully  affected  and 
stiff." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you." 

"  You  liked  her,  then  ?  " 

"  Exceedingly,"  said  the  honest  squire ;  "  I  thought 
her  a  young  woman  of  rare  beauty — ' 

"  Bah  !» 

"  And  great  talents." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  "  tastes  proverbially  dif 
fer.  I  thought  her  abominable." 

"  Were  you  not  speaking  to  her  at  one  time  ?" 

"Speaking  to  Portia?" 

"  Yes.  I  could  not  see  very  well  through  the  group 
around  her,  but  thought  I  saw  her  speaking  to  you." 

"  She  did  speak  to  me  " 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  At  least  she  says  we  are  not  acquainted." 

"  Here's  a  mystery  1" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  met  her  some  days  since  riding  out. 
She  had  lost  her  way,  and  I  directed  her  to  Williamsburg." 

"  I  hope  you  treated  her  with  courtesy." 

"  As  courteously  as  a  subject  could  a  queen,  and  got 
snubbed  last  night  for  my  pains,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with 
a  bad  affectation  of  indifference. 

The  squire  laughed,  which  caused  Mr.  Effingham  to 
frown. 

"  Most  insulting  treatment,"  he  said. 

"  Come,  come — your  ideas  are  too  English  and  not 
sufficiently  Virginian,"  said  the  squire.  "  This  young  wo 
man  is  not  degraded  by  her  profession  ;  and  though  not 
exactly  a  lady,  is  worthy  of  respect  if  she  conducts  herself 
properly.  For  my  part,  I  was  vastly  pleased  with  her,  and 
I  believe  every  one  but  yourself  who  witnessed  her  acting 
thought  as  I  did." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  "  I  am  sorry  to  find 
we  disagree.  In  my  eyes,  her  acting,  costume,  voice,  and 
general  style  were  inappropriate,  stilted,  and  in  bad  taste." 

"  You  are  offended  at  her  refusal  to  converse  with  you," 
laughed  the  squire,  "  and  so  are  a  prejudiced  witness. 
Hey  1 "  he  added,  looking  through  the  window,  "  there's  the 
person  come  «v«r  t»  dine." 


62  MR.    EFFINGHAM    CRITICISES   THE    COMEDT. 

Mr.  Effingham  was  glad  to  be  thus  relieved  frjm  th« 
dilemma  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  he  greeted  the  parson 
with  a  bow,  due  to  him  as  deliverer. 

"  A  fine  morning,  squire,"  said  Parson  Tag ;  "  how 
does  your  worship  find  yourself  after  the  lato  sitting  last 
night?" 

"  Quite  fresh — sit  down.  How  did  you  like  the  acting  ?  " 
Every  body  is  asking  that  question  now." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  parson,  dubiously.  "  It  was  toler 
ably  good,  but  much  of  it  was  overdone — overdone,  sir,  much 
overdone." 

"  WhaJ;  part  ?  But  excuse  me  for  a  moment.  I  have  a 
word  to  say  to  Alethea,  and  must  have  your  horse  taken : 
you  will  stay  to  dinner  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not.  I  have  an  engagement — but  perhaps 
— well,  I  suppose — " 

The  squire,  well  accustomed  to  this  formula,  was  already 
out  of  the  room,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  order  the 
parson's  animal  to  be  led  away,  as  he  would  spend  the  re 
maining  portion  of  the  day  at  the  Hall. 

"  You  said  the  play  was  overdone,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Mr, 
Effingham,  lounging  in  an  easy  chair,  and  drawling  out  his 
words.  "  What  part,  please  inform  me,  reverend  sir  ? — I  re 
peat  my  respected  governor's  question." 

"  All  was  overdone — especially  the  part  of  that  young  wo 
man,  the  daughter  of  the  manager." 

«  Miss  Hallain  ?  " 

"  Yes,  young  sir." 

"  Who  acted  Partia  ?  " 

"  Precisely.  I  never  saw  a  greater  failure— it  was 
wretched." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  acting  ?  "  said  Mr.  Emngham, 
with  indignant  disdain,  which  expression  did  not  escape  Mr. 
Tag. 

"  You  are  somewhat  abrupt,  sir,"  he  said  ;  "  but,  never 
theless,  I  will  answer  you.  In  my  former  worldly  days,  I 
frequented  playhouses  much,  and  have  thus  some  knowledge 
of  thsm." 

"  And  you  think  Portia's  part  was  overdone  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  wretched  ?  " 


MR.    EFF1NGHAM    3RTI  CISES   THE  COMEDY.  63 

"  Exactly." 

"  And  a  failure  ?  " 

"  Perfect." 

"  Then,  reverend  sir,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  insulting 
carelessness,  "  I  beg  leave  to  inform  you,  that  you  know  noth 
ing  about  acting.  I  have  never  seen  a  more  beautiful  ren 
dering  of  the  character.  Miss  Hallam — whom  I  highly 
esteem,  sir,  and  should  be  sorry  to  hear  any  one  insult ! — ia 
an  artist  of  rare  genius  !  Her  conception  and  execution  are 
alike  uncommon  and  admirable.  If  there  are  persons  who 
are  ignorant  of  what  acting  exacts,  and  who  do  not  know 
when  it  is  of  a  superior  order,  so  much  the  worse  for  them ! 
I  repeat,  sir,  that  any  competent  critic  would  have  approved 
unconditionally  of  Miss  Hallam's  acting  last  night  in  the 
part  of  Portia,  and  I  feel  some  surprise  at  hearing  from 
you  a  criticism  such  as  you  have  uttered.  The  acting  of  this 
young  lady — and  she  is  a  lady  in  every  sense  of  the  word ; 
for  do  not  think  that  I  am  of  the  prejudiced  way  of  thinking 
which  the  gentlemen  so-called  of  this  colony  take  pride  in — 
Miss  Hallam's  acting  is  of  an  order  superior  to  any  I  have 
ever  witnessed.  Her  costume,  style,  voice,  and  whole  ren 
dering  were  worthy  of  the  first  comedians  of  the  English 
stage.  And  permit  me  to  say,  that  your  former  drilling  in 
theatrical  criticism,  which  you  have  alluded  to,  must  have 
been  very  slight  and  incomplete,  if,  after  attending  the  per 
formance  with  which  every  one  was  delighted  last  night,  you 
failed  to  perceive  that  this  young  girl  of  eighteen — she  is 
not  more,  sir — is  destined  to  take  a  rank  inferior  to  no  artist 
who  now  adorns  with  her  genius  or  decorates  with  her  beauty 
and  accomplishments  that  department  of  art,  the  histrionit 
profession  !  " 

Mr.  Tag  was  fairly  overwhelmed.  His  feelings,  while 
this  storm  of  words  was  being  poured  out  on  his  devoted 
head,  might  have  been  compared  to  those  of  a  man  whv-rse 
eyes  are  dazzled  and  his  ears  deafened  by  lightning  uid 
thunders  issuing  from  a  cloudless  sky.  He  could  mustei  no 
reply — words  failed  him.  He  essayed  once  or  twice  to  mus 
ter  some  appropriate  indignation,  but  failed  lamentably. 
The  worthy  gentleman  was  accustomed  to  bully — as  we  now 
gay — others,  not  to  be  bullied ;  and  Mr.  Effingham  having 
"  stolen  his  art^'  that  art  now  failed  him. 


64  MR.    EFFLNGHAM    CRITICISES   THE   COMEDY. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  the  animated  and  consistent  en 
tic,  "  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  call  upon  Miss  Hallam, 
and  assure  her  of  my  high  appreciation  aud  admiration  of 
her  brilliant  genius.  I  know  what  acting  is,  sir  ! — and  when 
we,  the  gentlemen  of  Virginia,  are  so  fortunate  as  to  secure 
a  great  comedienne,  it  becomes  us  to  offer  her  the  tribute  of 
our  applause  !  Miss  Hallam  deserves  it — for  I  again  repeat, 
that  in  style,  dress,  voice,  and  conception,  she  is  far  before 
any  actress  with  whom,  in  my  various  experience,  I  have 
been  thrown  in  contact." 

"  Why,  Champ  1 "  cried  the  voice  of  the  squire,  at  the 
door,  "  you  are  the  most  consistent  of  critics,  and  the  most 
impartial  of  admirers  !  You  praise  and  abuse  in  the  same 
breath." 

Mr.  Effingham  betrayed  some  slight  embarrassment,  upon 
finding  that  his  enthusiastic  tribute  to  Miss  Hallam  had 
thus  been  overheard,  by  one  to  whom  he  had  spoken  of  her 
so  disparagingly.  But  this  soon  disappeared,  and  the  versa 
tile  young  gentleman  replied  with  great  coolness. 

"  All  chivalry,  sir — pure  chivalry.  I  thought  it  my 
duty  to  espouse  Miss  Hallam's  cause,  when  she  was  attack 
ed  by  so  rough  a  tilter  as  the  reverend  gentleman  here.  Was 
I  wrong,  and  would  you  not  have  done  the  same  ?  " 

This  was  very  adroit  in  Mr.  Effingham,  as  it  diverted  at 
tention  from  himself  to  the  views  of  the  parson. 

"  The  parson  attack  Portia  1 "  said  the  squire  ;  "  how 
so?" 

"  I  did  nothing  of  the  sort,  your  worship,"  said  the 
crest-fallen  parson,  u  I  only  expressed  some  dissatisfaction 
with  a  portion  of  her  acting : — for  which  crime,  Mr.  Effing 
ham  has  been  for  some  minutes  pouring  out  upon  my  head 
the  vials  of  wrath." 

"  Well,  let  us  say  no  more,"  returned  Mr.  Effingharc, 
subsiding  into  indifference  again  ;  "  I'm  tired  of  the  subject, 
and  will  no  longer  afflict  your  reverence.  Bring  me  some 
Jamaica,"  he  added,  to  a  servant  who  was  passing  through 
the  hall :  then  to  the  parson,  "  we'll  bury  all  differences  in 
a  flagon,"  he  said,  "  1*111  as  thirsty  as  a  fish." 

The  parson  brightened  up,  and,  when  he  had  emptied  a 
fair  cup  of  excellent  Jamaica,  was  ready  to  forgive  Mr.  Ef 
fingham  and  all  the  world — even  think  well  of  Portia.  In 


THE   OLD    RALEIGH   f AVEfcN.  65 

due  time,  that  is  to  say,  about  noon,  dinner  was  announced 
and  discussed  honestly  by  all,  except  Mr.  Effingham.  That 
gentleman  soon  rose  and  ordered  his  horse,  announcing  hia 
intention  of  riding  to  Williamsburg,  where  he  would  proba 
bly  spend  the  night. 

"  Don't  sit  up  for  me,  Alethea,"  he  added,  with  a  yawn. 

"  Indeed,  I  won't,"  Miss  Alethea  replied. 

Mr.  Effingham  nodded  indifferently,  and  sauntered  from 
the  room. 


CHAPTER   XIL 

THE  OLD  EALEIGH  TAVERN. 

THE  "  Raleigh  Tavern "  in  Williamsburg  had  been  se 
lected  for  a  residence  by  Mr.  Hallam  and  his  company  of 
comedians,  chiefly  on  the  ground  that  there  was  no  other 
hostelry  of  any  size  in  the  good  city  at  the  period  :  and  be 
fore  the  Raleigh  Mr.  Effingham  drew  rein.  A  negro  took 
his  horse,  and,  entering  the  broad  doorway,  the  young  man 
found  himself  opposite  to  the  manager  himself. 

"  Give  me  some  Jamaica,"  he  said  to  the  portly  land 
lord,  who  bowed  low  to  his  well-known  and  richly-clad  guest, 
"  and  you,  Mr.  Hallam,  come  here  and  empty  a  cup  with 
me.  I  came  to  see  Madam  Portia.  Where  is  she  at  the 
present  moment?  I  wish  to  pay  her  my  respects." 

So  far  from  displaying  any  ill-humor  at  these  cavalier 
words,  the  red-faced  manager  bowed  as  low  as  the  landloi  1, 
and  expressed  his  perfect  willingness  to  drink  with  Mr. 
Effingham  ;  which,  judging  from  his  voice  and  appearance, 
he  had  performed  in  company  with  himself  a  number  of 
times  already.  He  marched  up,  accordingly,  to  the  side 
board — in  those  simple  times  the  bottles  were  set  out  freely 
without  any  obstructing  "  bar  " — and  pouring  out  an  abund 
ant  supply  of  the  heady  rum,  swallowed  it  at  a  gulp.  Mr. 
Effingham  drank  his  own  more  leisurely,  talking  about  the 
performance  on  the  preceding  night. 

"  A  fine  house,  sir  1  a  most  enlightened  and  intellectual 


66  IHE    OLD    RALEIGH    TAVERN. 

audience,  such  as  I  expected  to  find  in  this  noble  colony/ 
Bald  Mr.  Hallam. 

"  What  receipts  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  Nearly  a  hundred  pounds,  sir  ;  as  much  as  the  great 
Congreve's  '  Love  for  Love '  ever  brought  me." 

"  I  should  have  thought  the  amount  larger, — cursed 
dust  1  I  believe  it  has  strangled  me  ! " 

"  I  saw  you,  sir,  and  your  honorable  party." 

"  The  devil  you  did  !  that's  strange,  for  Shylock  natu 
rally  took  up  your  whole  attention." 

"  Shylock  was  too  drunk,"  said  Hallam,  quite  naturally 
"  there  he  is,  in  the  corner,  now." 

"  Let  him  stay  there,  then.  You  have  not  answered  my 
question." 

"  Your  question  ?  " 

"  I  asked  where  Portia  was.M 

"  Oh,  Beatrice  1  she  is  somewhere  about." 

"  I  met  and  directed  her  on  her  way  to  town  the  othei 
day. — Send  up,  and  say  that  Mr.  Effingham  wishes  to  see 
her." 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

A  messenger  was  dispatched  to  Miss  Hallam's  room, 
and  in  a  moment  returned  with  the  reply,  that  she  was  busy 
studying  her  part. 

"She  can  see  you,  though,"  said  Hallam,  laughing; 
"  follow  me,  sir." 

Mr.  Effingham  followed  the  fat  manager,  and  a  flight  of 
stairs  brought  them  to  a  door,  which  Hallam  knocked  at, 
and  a  voice  bidding  him  come  in,  he  threw  it  open.  It 
afforded  entrance  to  a  small,  neat  room,  the  simple  ornaments 
of  which  were  in  perfect  taste  ;  the  window  of  this  room  waf 
open,  and  at  it  sat  the  young  girl,  whom  we  have  seen  twic* 
before ;  once,  in  the  bright  autumn  woods,  and  again  on 
the  stage,  in  the  character  of  Portia.  Beatrice  was  clad 
in  a  handsome  morning  dress  of  dove  color,  and  her  fine 
hair  was  secured  behind  her  statue-like  head  by  a  bow  of 
scarlet  riband.  She  leaned  one  hand  upon  her  book, — the 
other  supported  her  fair  brow,  and  her  classic  profile  was 
clearly  defined  against  the  rich  fall  forest,  visible  through 
the  window. 

At  the  noise  made  by  the  opening  door  she  railed  her 


THE  OLD  RALEIGH  TAVERM.  67 

eyes,  and  for  a  moment  gazed  in  silence  upon  the  intruders 
Then  apparently  resigning  herself  to  her  fate,  she  closed  the 
book  and  rose. 

"  I  told  the  servant  to  say  that  I  was  engaged  upon  my 
part,  father,"  she  said,  calmly,  to  Hallam.  "  I  shall  be  badly 
prepared  if  I  am  interrupted,  sir." 

<(  Oh,  plenty  of  time — and  with  your  genius,  child,  you 
can  do  any  thing.  She  is  as  quick  as  lightning,  Mr.  Effing- 
ham,"  added  the  manager,  discussing  the  young  girl's 
talents  in  her  hearing  without  a  thought  of  any  indelicacy 
in  such  a  proceeding,  "  and  when  she  catches  hold  of  a  role 
it's  done." 

Beatrice  was  silent. 

"  Come,  now,  talk  with  Mr.  Effingham  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  since  he  is  an  acquaintance,"  continued  the  man 
ager,  smiling,  "  in  that  time  you  will  lose  nothing,"  And 
passing  through  the  door,  he  descended  into  the  lower  part 
of  the  tavern. 

For  a  moment  the  two  personages  thus  left  alone  sur 
veyed  each  other  in  silence.  Before  Mr.  Effingham's  bold 
and  careless  glance,  Beatrice's  eyes  did  not  lower  for  an 
instant. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Effingham,"  she  said,  at  length,  quite  calm 
ly,  "  what  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Simply,  a  little  conversation  with  you,  my  charming 
Beatrice,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  carelessly. 

"  I  am  busy,  sir,  very.  I  act  Juliet  to-night,  and  am 
now  studying." 

"  Oh,  you  can  give  me  a  few  moments — " 

"  Well,  sir,"  she  said,  sitting  down  and  pointing  to  a 
«hair. 

"  Especially,"  continued  her  visitor,  "  as  you  refused 
to  say  any  thing  to  me  last  night." 

"  That  is  a  reproach,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  is  unjust,  as  you  know. " 

"  Now,  sfte  the  difference  of  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Effing 
ham,  smoothing  his  ruffles,  daintily,  "  I  think  that  nothing 
could  be  more  just.  I  reproach  you  justly,  because  you 
have  nothing  but  prudery  to  allege  as  an  excuse  for  youi 
refusal." 


OB  THE  OLD  RALEIGH  TAVERN. 

"  I  told  you,  sir,  then,  as  I  now  do,  tlat  conversation  on 
the  stage  destroys  my  conception  of  the  character  I  ain 
representing." 

"  Bah  !  all  theory." 

The  young  girl  seemed  to  he  somewhat  irritated  by  the 
disdainful  expression  of  Mr.  Effingham's  voice. 

"  Mr.  Effingham,"  she  said,  "  be  pleased  not  to  treat 
me  like  your  servant.  I  am  no  common  attach 6  of  the 
stage,  sir,  such  as  you  have  met  with,  doubtless,  in  London 
frequently.  I  say  this,  sir,  in  no  spirit  of  self-approval,  but 
because  it  is  true." 

"  Why,  Beatrice,  you  are  really  about  to  bowstring  me, 
or  put  me  to  some  horrible  death,  I  believe." 

"  See,  sir,"  said  the  young  girl,  with  noble  calmness, 
"  we  are  very  nearly  perfect  strangers,  and  you  address  me 
as  '  Beatrice,'  as  familiarly  as  my  own  father." 

"  May  the  devil  take  it — you  quarrel  with  a  mere  habit. :l 

"  Mr.  Effingham,"  said  the  young  woman,  rising,  and 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  perfect  calmness,  "  I  quarrel  neither 
with  you  nor  any  one;  above  all,  I  do  not  presume  to 
criticise  your  habits,  except  when  those  habits,  as  in  the 
present  instance,  concern  myself." 

"  Bah  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Effingharm  with  a  laugh,  "  how, 
pray?" 

"  You  seem  to  think,  sir,  that  it  is  my  place  to  be  thank 
ful  when  you  address  me  intimately,  and  familiarly,  as  you 
have  done." 

"  What  harm  is  there  ?  " 

"  That  question  is  an  insult,  sir  ! " 

"  May  the  devil  take  me,  but  you  are  fruitful  in  imagi 
nary  offences,  and  insults  offered  you." 

"  No,  sir — I  do  not  exercise  my  imagination  at  all  Your 
tone  to  me  is  disagreeable." 

"  There  it  is  again — you  are  really  going  to  bite  me,  I 
believe.  Let  us  leave  the  subject,  and  discuss  last  night's 
performance.  Your  acting  was  really  not  bad." 

The  proud  lip  of  the  young  woman  moved  slightly. 

"  Ah !  ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  laughing,  "  I  see  what 
you  mean  by  that  scornful  look.  I  am  a  poor  critic,  you 
would  say." 

"  I  say  ittkimg,  sir 


THE   OLD    RALEIGH   TAVERN.  69 

"  I  have  no  taste,  you  would  say :  though  I  fceg  you  to 
observe,  that  inasmuch  as  I  have  praised  your  acting,  that  is 
a  false  step  in  you." 

Beatrice  repressed  her  rising  anger,  and  bowed  coldly. 

Mr.  Effingham  received  this  exhibition  of  hauteur  witk. 
careless  nonchalance,  and  picking  up  the  volume  which  tho 
young  girl  had  laid  down  on  his  entrance,  said : 

"  You  act  Juliet  to-night?  " 

"  I  do,  sir." 

"  I  shall  come." 

Beatrice  made  no  reply. 

"  I  beg,  now,"  continued  Mr.  Effingham,  arranging  one 
of  his  ambrosial  drop-curls  daintily  upon  his  cheek,  "  I  beg 
you  will  not  put  any  of  that  ferocious  feeling  you  now  exhibit 
into  Juliet.  The  character  is  essentially  tender  and  poeti 
cal,  and  ranting  would  kill  it." 

"  I  never  rant,  sir,"  said  Beatrice,  apparently  resigning 
herself  to  the  presence  of  her  insulting  visitor,  and  speaking 
in  a  tone  of  utter  coldness. 

"  That's  right,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham,  indifferently  ; 
"  be  subdued,  quiet,  but  intense,  and  all  that.  Juliet  is 
deeply  in  love  with  Komeo,  recollect,  and  love  does  not 
express  itself  by  tirade.  Do  you  think  it  suits  you  ?  Come, 
answer  me." 

"  I  have  played  it  before,  sir." 

"  That  is  no  answer." 

"  Please  leave  me  to  study  my  part,  sir — time  is  pass 
ing." 

"  Not  before  giving  my  views,  Beatrice.  I  don't  think 
you  will  act  Juliet  well.  It  requires  a  tender,  loving  na 
ture  ;  and  you  are  minus  the  heart,  it  is  plain ;  and  you  will 
butcher  the  part." 

"  Thanks  for  your  compliment,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  I  never  compliment,  or  any  thing  of  the  sort." 

*  I  am  losing  time,  sir." 

•'  Conversing  with  me,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  The  conversation,  then,  is  very  distasteful  to  you,  pay 
charming  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  1  "  she  said. 

M  You  hate  me,  perhaps  ?  ' ' 


70  THE  OLD  EALE1GH  TAVERH. 

The  young  girl  made  no  reply. 

"  Or,  perhaps,  your  ladyship  despises  me  ?  "  added  M/. 
Effinghain,  betraying  some  irritation. 

"  I  do  neither,  sir — you  are  indifferent  to  me." 

These  words  were  uttered  with  so  much  coldness,  that 
Mr.  Effingham's  amour-propre  was  deeply  wounded.  He 
began  to  get  angry.  A 

"  You  are  really  a  very  amiable  young  lady,"  he  said. 
'  Here  I  ride  all  the  way  from  the  country  for  the  sole  pur 
pose  of  seeing  you." 

"  And  insulting  me,  sir,  add." 

"  And  you  receive  me,"  continued  Mr.  Effingham,  taking 
no  notice  of  the  interruption,  "as  if  I  were  a  common 
clodhopper,  instead  of  a  gentleman,  paying  you  a  friendly 
visit." 

'  Your  friendly  visits  do  not  please  me,  sir." 

"  I  see  they  do  not." 

"  I  am  an  actress,  sir,  and  not  of  your  class." 

"  Bah  !  who  speaks  of  classes  ?  " 

"  You  yourself  this  moment,  sir !  " 

"  You  choose  to  misunderstand  me.  I  said  that  my 
visit  was  the  friendly  one  of  a  well-bred  man,  not  the  imper 
tinent  intrusion  of  a  country  bumpkin,  like  those  knaves  who 
hissed  me  in  the  gallery,  or  that  clodhopper  who  presumed 
to  bend  his  angry  glances  on  me  from  the  pit — Mr.  Charles 
Waters,  I  know  him  well — the  young  reformer,  forsooth !  " 

Beatrice's  face  flushed. 

"  I  saw  no  nobler  countenance,  sir,"  she  said,  coldly, 
"  among  all  your  aristocratic  friends." 

"  Ah  I  your  cavalier,  I  perceive  1  "  said  Mr.  Effingham, 
bitterly ;  "  really,  I  shall  become  jealous." 

"  I  do  not  know  him,  even,  sir — your  scoff  is  unjust." 

"  Your  true  knight,  who  wished  to  run  a  tilt  with  me  for 
touching  your  arm !  Perhaps  he  has  but  now  left  you,  and 
before  going,  devoted  my  humble  self  to  the  infernal  gods  for 
daring  to  address  you." 

"  I  repeat,"  said  Beatrice,  indignantly,  "  that  I  have 
seen  him  but  once,  and  on  the  occasion  you  allude  to." 

"  Well,  I  believe  you.  But  let  such  impertinent  bump 
kins  beware  how  they  criticise  my  actions  in  future,  even  by 
their  looks." 


THE   OLD   RALElGtt   TAV0RN.  71 

Beatrice  sat  down,  with  a  mixture  of  weariness  and  scorn 
on  her  beautiful  countenance,  and,  taking  up  the  book  which 
the  young  man  had  laid  down,  began  to  study  her  part. 
This  calmness  seemed  to  enrage  Mr.  Effingham  not  a  little, 
and  he  put  on  his  cocked  hat  with  a  flirt  of  irritation. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  ;  "  that  means  that  you  are  weary 
of  me — I  am  not  good  enough  for  Miss  Hallam — she  is  too 
immaculate  for  me." 

"  I  have  my  part  to  study,  sir." 

And  she  began  to  con  her  character  in  silence. 

Mr.  Effingham  swung  his  short  sword  round  angrily 
and  without  further  words  went  hurriedly  out  of  the  room. 
He  brushed  by  Mr.  Hallam,  who  was  talking  with  Shylock, 
and,  mounting  his  horse,  galloped  from  the  town  towards 
the  Hall, 

The  manager's  good-humored  greeting  as  he  passed  had 
been  completely  disregarded ;  and  thinking  rightly  that 
something  bad  happened  to  cause  this  abrupt  departure,  ha 
went  up  to  his  daughter's  room. 

"  Why  did  the  young  man  go  so  abruptly,  my,  child  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Because  I  would  not  return  him  my  thanks  for  visiting 
me,"  said  Beatrice,  bitterly. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  manager,  laughing, "  you  are  too  prudish, 
Beatrice.  You  should  not  complain  of  these  visits,  which 
are  customary,  and  not  strange,  when  you  are  acquainted — 
as  you  are  with  Mr.  Effingham,  he  says.  Your  aim  in  life, 
as  you  say  you  hate  the  stage  so  much,  should  be  to  marry 
well — and  I  much  misunderstand  this  young  fellow,  if  he 
would  not  marry  you  in  the  face  of  the  world,  if  he 
fancied." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  marry  him,  or  any  one  like  him  I " 
said  Beatrice,  her  face  flushing,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  filling 
with  angry  tears. 

"  You  are  mad  ! — he  is,  the  landlord  tells  me,  of  one  of 
the  best  and  wealthiest  families  in  the  colony." 

"  And  because  he  is,"  said  Beatrice,  wiping  her  eyes, 
"  he  thinks  he  has  the  right  to  intrude  upon  me,  and  speak 
in  any  tone  he  chooses.  Father  !  "  she  added,  passionately, 
"  I  am  sick  of  this  eternal  persecution  — in  London — here 
— ev*ry  where.  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  remain  upon  the  stag?, 


79  THE  OLD  RALEIGH  TAVERN. 

exposed  to  this  class  of  persons  all  my  life — my  head  is  hot 
and  burning  now,  my  eyes  feel  like  fire — oh  !  I  wish  I  was 
dead  !  " 

Passionate  tears  followed  these  words,  and  Beatrice 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  bending  down  and  sobbing. 
The  good-hearted  old  fellow,  who  really  had  his  daughter's 
good  at  heart  in  all  things,  betrayed  some  feeling  at  this  ex 
plosion  of  grief ;  and  betook  himself  to  soothing  the  young 
girl,  with  gentle  words,  and  caresses,  and  assurances  of  his 
own  unchangeable  love. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  said,  much  affected,  "  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  so  much  moved.  Don't  think  too  hardly  of  this  young 
man.  He  is  thoughtless,  perhaps,  but  does  not  mean  any 
offence.  There  now  !  "  he  said,  caressing  her  disorderd  hair, 
"  don't  cry,  Beatrice.  You  shall  forget  all  this  to-morrow, 
when,  as  there  will  be  no  performance,  we  can  go  and  have 
the  sail  upon  James  River,  which  you  said  you  would  like 
so  much — will  you  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Beatrice,  growing  calmer,  "  oh  yes  !  I 
want  to  get  away  from  all  this  tormenting  excitement,  and 
breathe  the  fresh  river  air.  I  am  happiest  in  the  woods,  or 
on  the  water.  I  won't  cry  any  more,  sir,  and  don't  fear  I 
will  not  act  my  part  well.  I  don't  like  acting,  and  at  times 
I  feel  a  weariness  and  disgust  which  I  cannot  subdue  :  but 
I  will  not  let  any  of  my  bad  feelings  interfere  with  your 
wishes.  Indeed,  I'll  act  very  well,  sir." 

"  And  don't  be  too  angry  at  the  young  man — he  meant 
nothing,  I  know." 

"  I  have  forgotten  him,  sir,"  said  the  young  girl,  with 
noble  calmness. 

"  A  mere  thoughtless  youth,  who  admires  you  highly — I 
•aw  that  well,  when  you  were  speaking  in  the  trial  scene  last 
night.  Now  I  will  leave  you.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  father — kiss  me,  before  you  go." 

And  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  having  retired,  the  young  girl 
growing  gradually  calm,  again  applied  herself  once  more  to 
the  study  of  her  part, 


A   LOYKK.    FOX-HUNTER.    AND    IAMOK.  70 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

A  LOVEK,  FOX-HUNTEB,  AND  PABSON. 

OUT  of  Williamsburg — into  the  forest — through  the  forest — 
and  so  into  the  open  highway  sped  Mr.  Effingham,  as  if  au 
avenging  Nemesis  were  behind  him,  and  nothing  but  the 
headlong  speed  he  was  pushing  his  noble  bay  to,  could  pre 
serve  him  from  the  clutches  of  the  pursuer.  He  made 
furious  gestures,  uttered  more  furious  words.  The  ordinary 
languor  and  nonchalance  of  this  gentleman  seemed  to  have 
passed  from  him  wholly,  and  a  fiery,  passionate  man,  taken 
the  petit  maitre's  place. 

Going  at  this  headlong  speed,  he  very  nearly  ran  over,  be 
fore  he  was  aware  of  their  proximity,  a  party  of  gentlemen 
nf  his  acquaintance,  who  were  riding  leisurely  toward  the 
bachelor  establishment  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  visible  a  few  hun 
dred  yards  ahead.  Mr.  Hamilton  rode  in  front  of  the 
glittering  cortege,  and  became  aware  of  Mr.  Effingham'a 
presence,  by  having  his  horse  nearly  driven  from  beneath 
him. 

"  What,  the  devil !  "  cried  jolly  Jack  Hamilton. 

"  It's  Effingham,  racing  for  life  1 "  rose  in  chorus,  from 
the  laughing  horsemen 

"  The  devil,  Champ  !  what's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Hamil 
ton,  "  have  you  made  a  bet  that  you  will  ride  over  us,  horse, 
foot  and  dragoons  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  regaining  a  portion 
of  his  habitual  calmness,  "  but  the  fact  is,  Hamilton,  I  am 
angry  enough  to  gallop  to  the  devil,  whom  you  have  twice 
apostrophized  so  emphatically." 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  lam  mad." 

"  Intellectually,  or  do  you  mean  that  you  are  merely  out 
of  temper  ?  " 

"  Both,  I  believe." 

"  Then,  come  and  sleep  with  me,  and  have  a 
with  us  in  the  morning." 

"  No." 
4 


74  A    LOVER,    FOX-HUNTER,    AMD    PARSON. 

"  Come,  now." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  Well,  at  least,  let  us  have  the  cause  of  your  fury." 

Mr.  Effingham  hesitated,  but  at  last,  overcome  with  raga, 
eaid: 

"  That  young  actress  has  been  assuming  her  airs  ttwardi 
me,  and  has  made  me  as  you  find  me.  There  it  is  1  I  con 
fess  I  am  out  of  temper." 

"  What  a  confession  it  is  I  "  cried  Hamilton,  laughing 
u  I  thought  you  never  suffered  yourself  to  be  ruffled." 

"  I  seldom  do." 

"  And  she  offended  you  ?  " 

"  Snubbed  me — nothing  less.     It  is  really  humiliating." 

And  Mr.  Effingham  looked  as  if  he  believed  what  he 
naid  :  his  face  was  flushed,  and  he  looked  gloomy. 

"  How  was  it  ?  "  asked  the  company. 

"  Why,  just  thus.  I  went  to  pay  her  a  visit,  and  com 
plimented  her  performance  in  Portia,  highly.  What  reply 
did  I  receive,  sir  ?  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  indignantly,  "  why, 
an  insult !  '  Please  leave  me — I  must  study  my  part ! ' 
that  was  her  reply.  And  when  I  declined  to  avail  myself  of 
the  privilege,  she  went  on  studying,  as  calmly  as  if  I  was 
not  present." 

"  A  perfect  she-dragon,  by  George  !  "  said  Hamilton, 
"  but  really,  that  was  bad  treatment." 

"  Abominable  ! "  said  the  chorus. 

"  She  could  not  have  treated  a  country  clown  more  harsh 
ly,"  added  Hamilton ;  "  how  could  she  be  guilty  of  such 
rudeness.  She  don't  look  like  it — I  thought  her  very  lady 
like." 

"  All  acting  1  "  said  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  Plainly." 

"  She  shall  repent  it,"  blurted  out  Mr.  Effingham,  "  the 
insulting  girl  1  I  never  saw  greater  rudeness  and  hauteur. 
A  mere  London  commedienne  of  no  talents,  and  bringing 
her  stilted  affectations  to  the  colony." 

"  Come,  my  dear  Effingham,  don't  be  angry.  Here  we 
are  at  the  Trap — my  respectable  bachelor  residence  :  come 
in,  and  cool  off  in  some  Jamaica  " 

"  No,  thank  you — I  must  get  on.     I  am  bad  company.  ' 

And,  leaving  the  fox-hunters,  Mr.  Effingham  rode  on 
toward  the  Hall.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house  he 


A  LOVER,  FOX-HUNTER,  AND  PARSON.          7& 

met  Parson  Tag,  jogging  on  his  cob  from  the  Hall  home 
ward,  with  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  knees  and  elbows  pain 
fully  angular. 

"  Good  evening,  sir,"  said  the  parson,  "  you  return  soon : 
the  dews  of  evening  are  scarce  falling." 

"  I  thought  you  were  at  the  Hall,  sir,  for  the  evening." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  I  was  absent,"  said  Mr.  Effingham  coldly. 
u  We  quarrel,  I  believe,  always,  and  I  thought  you  would  re 
main,  as  I  was  away." 

Mr.  Effingham's  irritation  and  ill-humor  must  plead  his 
excuse  for  this  irreverent  speech. 

"  The  quarrelling  is  on  your  side,  not  on  mine,  sir,"  said 
the  parson,  endeavoring  to  be  dignified;  "lam  a  man  of 
peace." 

"  Carrying  out  which  character,  you  this  morning  attacked 
Miss  Hallam,  sir !  " 

"  Really,  you  seem  to  have  espoused  that  young  lady's 
cause  against  all  comers,"  said  the  indignant  parson.  "  Tak^i 
care,  young  sir ;  as  the  parson  of  your  parish,  it  is  my  duty 
to  warn  you  against  the  snares  of  Satan.  This  Jezebel  will 
be  your  ruin." 

"  Be  pleased  to  speak  respectfully  of  Miss  Hallam,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Effingham,  threateningly,  "  when  you  address  me 
on  the  subject  of  her  character.  Though  not  her  knight,  I 
hold  myself  ready  to  '  espouse  her  cause,'  as  you  say,  sir, 
even  against  the  '  parson  of  my  parish  ! '  " 

"  Here's  a  pretty  mess,"  returned  the  pompous  gentleman, 
descending  to  the  vulgate  :  "  you  threaten  me,  forsooth !  " 

"  No,  sir  :  I  acknowledge  the  folly  of  my  words.  You 
wear  no  sword,  and  are  not  responsible  for  thus  slandering 
my  friends — yes,  my  friends,  sir  1  I  say  again,  that  Miss  Hal 
lam  is  one  of  my  friends,  and  a  young  lady  who  has  thus  far 
conducted  herself  with  immaculate  propriety.  Now,  go  sir, 
and  laugh  at  me.  I  value  your  derision  as  I  value  your 
praise — as  nothing." 

And  Mr.  Effingham  rode  on  as  furiously  as  before,  with 
out  reflecting  for  an  instant  on  the  strange  inconsistency  of 
his  conduct.  Might  not  a  small  modicum  of  self-kaowledge 
have  explained  to  him  the  truth  of  the  matter  ?  But  he  was 
blinded  by  those  dazzling  eyes,  and  saw  no  inconsistency  in 
his  words. 


76        HOW   MR.    E.    STAINED    HIS    RUFFLES   WITH    BLOOD. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

HOW  MR.  EFFINOHAM  STAINED  HIS  RUFFLES  WITH  BLOOD. 

TEN  minutes'  ride  brought  him  to  Emngham  Hall,  and,  throw 
ing  his  bridle  to  a  negro  who  ran  forward  to  take  it,  he  en 
tered  the  hall.  Supper  was  soon  served,  and  Mr.  Emngham 
was  plied  with  questions  as  to  his  abrupt  return,  and  moody 
state  of  mind.  These  questions  were  received  with  very  little 
good-humor  by  the  young  man,  who  was  in  a  furious  ill- 
humor,  and  he  was  soon  left  to  himself.  The  squire  was  not 
present,  having  some  writing  to  do  in  the  library,  whither  a 
cup  of  chocolate  was  sent  him. 

After  supper  Mr.  Emngham  sat  down  moodily,  resting 
his  feet  on  the  huge  grim-headed  andirons,  which  shone 
brightly  in  the  cheerful  light  thrown  out  by  some  blazing 
splinters,  for  the  October  evenings  were  becoming  chilly. 
Miss  Alethea,  who  sat  sewing  busily,  after  pouring  out  tea, 
endeavored  in  vain  to  extract  a  word  from  him. 

Little  Kate,  who  sat  in  the  corner  near  Mr.  Emngham, 
on  her  own  little  cricket,  paused  in  the  midst  of  her  work — 
Carlo  was  going  on  bravely  now — to  ask  cousin  Champ  what 
made  him  feel  bad,  and  was  he  sick  ?  The  child  was  Mr. 
Effingham's  favorite,  and  he  was  always  ready  to  play  with 
her ;  but  on  the  present  occasion  he  replied  that  he  was  not 
sick,  and  did  not  wish  to  be  annoyed. 

Kate  looked  much  hurt,  and  Master  Willie,  who  was 
pouring  over  a  wonderful  book  of  travels  at  the  table,  mani 
fested  some  disapprobation,  on  hearing  his  future  wife  thus 
rudely  addressed. 

"  You  are  not  mad  with  me,  cousin  Champ  ?  "  said  little 
Kate,  piteously. 

"  No — no  !  I  am  angry  with  nobody,"  said  Mr.  Effing- 
bam,  with  some  impatience,  but  more  softly  than  before. 

Kate,  encouraged  by  these  words,  laid  Carlo  down,  and 
pouring  some  perfume  from  a  bottle  into  her  hand,  stole  up 
to  Mr.  Emngham,  and  said  : 

"  Oh,  I  know  you've  got  a  headache,  cousin  Champ  I 
Let  me  put  this  on  your  forehead." 

He  would  have  refused,  but  the  little  face  was  so  tender, 
%nd  the  small  hand  so  soft,  that  he  could  not. 


HOW    MR.    E.    STAINED    HIS    RUFFLES    WITH    BLOOD.         7? 

"  I  have  no  headache,  Katy,"  he  said,  "  I  am  only  an 
noyed — no,  I  believe  I  am  not  even  annoyed." 

And  rising  abruptly,  he  said  to  a  servant : 

"  Order  my  horse  !  " 

The  negro  hastened  out. 

"  Why,  where  in  the  world  can  you  be  going  at  this 
hour  ?  "  said  Miss  Alethea,  writing  busily. 

Mr.  Effingham  either  did  not  hear  this  question,  or  deign 
ed  to  take  no  notice  of  it :  a  circumstance  which  caused 
Miss  Alethea  to  toss  her  head,  and  preserve  a  dignified 
silence. 

"  Well !  my  horse  ?  "  he  said,  as  the  servant  re-entered. 

"  Be  round  directly,  sir, — I  told  Dick  to  be  quick." 

Kate  stole  up  and  took  his  hand. 

"  Cousin  Champ,"  she  said,  "  it  is  getting  cold.  Won't 
you  wear  my  white  comfort  ?  I'll  bring  it  in  a  minute." 

"  No,  no  !  I  don't  need  it." 

Kate  tip-toed,  and  whispered  in  his  ear : 

"  I  won't  like  cousin  Clare,  if  she  treats  you  badly." 

"  Foolish  child  !  for  heaven's  sake  let  me  alone  !  " 

Then,  seeing  that  the  little  face  looked  hurt  and  morti 
fied  ,  he  added  gloomily  : 

"I  am  not  treated  badly  by  any  one,  Kate :  you  attach 
too  much  importance  to  my  moods.  There  :  I  had  no  inten 
tion  of  hurting  your  feelings,  and  I  am  not  going  to  see  any 
body  in  particular." 

"  Did  anybody  ever ! "  said  Miss  Alethea,  raising  her 
hands.  "  Apologise  to  a  child,  when  my  questions  are  met 
with  insult." 

Mr.  Effingham  treated  this  apostrophe  to  the  unknown 
personage,  who  finds  himself  called  upon  to  express  his  sen 
timents  on  such  astounding  occasions,  with  profound  dis 
regard,  and  went  out  into  the  night.  A  servant  held  his 
horse,  and  he  vaulted  into  the  saddle,  and  set  forward  at  a 
gallop — toward  Williamsburg. 

"  That  woman  will  be  my  fate  !"  he  muttered,  between 
his  clenched  teeth  ;  and  with  a  reckless  laugh,  "  I  see  the 
abyss  before  me,  and  the  mocking  glances  of  the  world  are 
plain  to  me.  I,  a  gentleman,  to  trouble  myself  about  an 
actress  1  I  suppose  I  will  end  by  offering  her  my  hand,  and 
then  comes  the  storm !  Married  to  an  actress  1 — for,  by 


78         HOW    UK.    E.    STAINED    HIS    RUFFLES    WITH    BLOOD. 

heaven,  if  I  wish  to  do  so,  I  will  do  so  in  spite  of  fire  and 
tempest !  They'll  laugh  when  they  read  of  my  wedding — • 
I  see  them  now,  leering  and  smiling,  and  giggling :  the  well- 
bred  gentlemen  wondering  how  I  could  throw  myself  away 
BO, — the  eligible  young  ladies  intensely  indignant,  at — what? 
why,  at  the  loss  of  a  visitor  and  prospective  husband.  They 
would  scout  the  idea,  truly  !  but  I  defy  them  to  deny  it — a 
score  of  them.  Marry  an  actress  ! — I  am  stamped  with 
degradation  for  ever  by  it.  Well,  I'm  not  fool  enough  for 
that,  quite  yet ;  but  every  bound  of  this  horse  is  a  step  in  my 
fate.  Let  it  be ! " 

And  digging  his  spurs  into  the  animal's  sides,  he  fled  on 
through  the  darkness  like  the  wild  huntsman ;  as  furious 
and  fast.  The  lights  of  the  town  soon  rose  on  his  sight, 
and  clattering  to  the  "  Raleigh,"  he  gave  his  horse  in  charge 
of  an  ostler,  and  repaired  without  brushing  the  dust  from 
his  clothes,  or  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  brow,  to  the 
theatre. 

The  play  had  commenced  nearly  an  hour  before,  and  it 
was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  young  man — pushing  by  a 
number  of  ladies,  his  acquaintances — could  reach  the  stage, 
upon  which  some  dozen  or  more  gentlemen  were  standing  or 
seated.  In  the  middle  box,  his  excellency,  the  Governor, 
and  his  household,  glittered  in  silk,  embroidery  and  gold. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  stage,  Juliet  made  her  appear 
ance  in  the  garden.  Beatrice  was  the  very  impersonation 
of  the  poet's  conception — so  tender,  yet  passionate ;  bold, 
yet  fearful,  were  her  looks  and  tones,  her  gestures,  and  whole 
rendering  of  the  part.  Her  dewy  eyes  burned  with  a  steady 
and  yet  changeable  flame ;  were  now  veiled  with  thought, 
then  radiant  with  passionate  love,  and  like  two  moons,  new 
risen,  swayed  the  quick  currents  of  the  blood.  The  audience 
greeted  her  with  enthusiastic  applause,  and  Mr.  Eflingham 
saw  that  the  favorable  impression  she  had  made  on  the  pre 
vious  night  had  now  been  much  heightened. 

In  truth,  nothing  could  be  more  splendid  than  her  coun 
tenance,  as  she  hastened  to  meet  tin  nurse,  bringing  her  news 
of  her  lover :  and  Mr.  Effinghaui,  spite  of  his  agitation  and 
gloom,  could  not  help  hanging  on  her  words  and  glances, 
drinking  in  the  music  of  her  rare  and  wonderful  voice  with 
greedy  ears.  A  bitter  smile  distorted  his  features,  how 


HOW   MR.    E.    STAINED   HIS   RUFFLES   WITH   J5LOOD.         7rJ 

ever ;  for  with  every  burst  of  applause — and  no  opportunity 
was  allowed  by  the  audience  to  escape  them — he  felt  more 
and  more  how  insignificant  he  was  to  this  young  girl,  ap 
plauded,  caressed,  overwhelmed  with  the  intoxicating  praise 
lavished  on  her  from  a  thousand  hands — the  incense  ascend 
ing  in  her  honor  there  before  him. 

"  What  does  she  care  for  me  !  "  he  said,  bitterly ;  "  every 
body  praises  her — all  are  delighted — those  fools,  there,  ar 
devouring  her  with   their   eyes,  and  think  her  an  angel  of 
genius  and  beauty  from  the  skies.     I  tear  my  heart  in  vain.' 

And  with  passionate  anger  Mr.  Effingham  grasped  his 
breast,  and  dug  his  nails  into  the  flesh,  until  they  were 
stained  with  blood.  The  rich  lace  ruffle,  rumpled  and  torn, 
revealed  in  its  crimson  stain  the  excess  of  his  rage. 

He  made  no  reply  to  the  laughing  words  addressed  to 
him  by  his  companions,  and  taking  up  a  position  almost 
behind  the  scenes,  arrested  Beatrice  in  her  passage  as  she 
went  out. 

"  You  do  not  see  me  !  "  he  said,  abruptly. 

"  Good  evening,  sir,"  said  Beatrice,  calmly  ;  "  I  was  ab 
sorbed  in  my  part." 

And  she  endeavored  to  pass  on. 

"  Stop,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a  sneering  laugh,  "  you 
are  really  too  much  in  a  hurry." 

"  I  must  look  at  my  next  speech,  sir — I  should  have 
known  it  but  for  your  interruption  this  morning." 

"  You  hate  me — do  you  not  ?  "  he  said,  clasping  her  arm 

"  No,  sir — please  release  me." 

"  Ah  !  you  have  merely  contempt  for  me,  madam." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,"  said  Beatrice,  raising  her  head  with 
oold  dignity,  "  I  despise  no  one.  Your  words  are  probably 
ironical,  as  you  ask  me,  an  actress,  if  I  despise  you,  a 
wealthy  gentleman ;  but  I  reply  to  you  aa  if  you  were  in 
earnest.  Now,  sir,  I  must  go." 

"  Not  until  I  have  told  you  that  you  ar«  a  heartless  and 
unfeeling  woman — a  nature  of  stone — a  coL.\  and  unimpress- 
ible  automaton !  " 

The  young  girl  looked  strangely  at  him. 

"  You  have  despised  the  honestly-offer* <J  courtesy  of  a 
man  against  whom  you  know  nothing.  Stoj  ,  madam  !  You 
have  tormented  me ;  yes,  tormented  me  '  —  *-oe  humiliating 


80  THE   SAIL-BOAT   "  NANCY.** 

truth  will  out!— -tormented  me  by  your  coldness  and  con 
tempt — destroyed  my  temper; — since  seeing  you  I  am 
another  man,  and  a  worse  one.  Look,  my  ruffle  is  rumpled 
and  bloody — your  nails  tore  my  flesh  !  " 

"  Oh,  sir !  "  cried  the  young  girl,  starting  back  in  horror, 
"  how  could  you " 

"  A  mere  scratch,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  bitterly, 
"  and  I  used  a  mere  figure  of  speech  in  saying  that  your 
hand  inflicted  it.  You  only  caused  it  1  " 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  you  frighten  me.     I  must  go." 

"  You  shall  hear  me." 

"  I  must  go,  sir  ;  listen,  the  audience  are  becoming  im 
patient.  Release  my  sleeve,  sir,"  she  said,  coldly  and 
firmly,  again ;  and  leaving  him,  she  issued  forth  upon  the 
stage,  and  with  a  voice  as  firm  and  steady  as  ever — so  won 
derful  was  her  self-control — continued  her  character.  As 
she  passed  out  after  the  scene,  Mr.  Effingham  in  vain 
attempted  to  address  her.  Failing  in  this,  he  ground  his 
teeth,  and  clutching  a  second  time  the  unfortunate  lace  at 
his  bosom,  tore  it  into  shreds.  He  turned,  and  almost 
rushed  from  the  theatre.  As  he  brushed  through  the  box, 
he  heard  a  little  cry  of  astonishment,  and  a  soft  voice  full  of 
surprise  said,  "  Mr.  Effingham  !  "  He  turned,  and  his  eyes 
met  those  of  Clare,  fixed  on  him  with  trouble  and  aston 
ishment. 

He  bowed,  said  hurriedly  something  about  regretting  the 
necessity  of  his  departure,  and  left  the  theatre  just  as  the 
audience  greeted  the  re-entrance  of  Beatrice  with  a  burst  of 
applause.  He  hastened  to  the  "  Raleigh,"  mounted  his 
horse,  and  fled  out  into  the  dark  night  like  a  phantom,  full 
of  rage  and  despair,  that  joyous  applause  still  ringing  in 
his  ears. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE  SAIL-BOAT  "NANCY." 


"  HAVE  you  never,  0  friend,  who  now  readest  these  un 
worthy  lines,  abandoned  for  a  time  your  city  life,  with  its  noise 
»nd  bustle,  and  eternal  striving,  and  locking  up  with  your 


THE    SAIL-BOAT    "NANCY."  81. 

ledgers,  or  your  lawbooks,  all  thoughts  of  business,  gone 
into  that  bright  lowland,  which  the  James  flows  proudly 
through,  a  band  of  silver  wavering  across  a  field  of  emerald  ? 
Have  you  never  sought  a  sensation  finer,  emotions  fresher, 
than  city  triumphs  and  delights — and,  leaving  for  a  time 
your  absorbing  cares  and  aspirations,  trusted  yourself  to  the 
current,  like  a  bark,  which  takes  no  prescribed  course,  stops 
at  no  stated  place,  but  suffers  the  wind  and  the  stream  to 
bear  it  whithersoever  they  will,  well  knowing  that  the  wind 
cannot  waft  it,  the  tide  cannot  bear  it,  where  the  blue  sky 
will  not  arch  above,  the  fresh,  waving  woods  will  not  mirror 
their  tall  trunks  and  fine  foliage  in  the  serene  surface  ? 
Have  you  never  sailed  along  that  majestic  river,  with  its 
sentinel  pines,  and  wood-embowered  mansions,  and  bright 
ripples  breaking  into  foam,  when  the  west  wind,  blowing 
freshly,  strikes  against  the  tide,  surging  for  ever  from  the 
sea  ?  Go,  on  an  October  day,  when  the  white  clouds  are 
shattered  by  the  breezes  of  the  Atlantic — those  breezes  still 
redolent  with  the  perfumes  of  the  tropics, — and  telling  of 
their  long  travel  over  lands  of  unimagined  beauty  and  un 
dreamed-of  splendor — go  on  one  of  those  clear,  sunny  days 
of  the  early  autumn,  when  the  waters  ripple  like  molten  sil 
ver  agitated  by  the  breath  of  the  Deity;  when  trees  ar* 
crimson,  and  blue,  and  golden,  like  the  myriad  silken 
banners  which  erewhile  flouted  the  deep  heaven  before 
Tamerlane ;  when  the  wave  laps  upon  the  shore,  and  silences 
*he  whisper  of  the  pines  with  its  monotonous  and  dreamy 
music ;  where  the  water-fowl  sleep  upon  the  surge,  or  extend 
their  broad  wings  above  the  glittering  foam,  to  strike  the 
:juick- darting  prey  their  keen  eyes  have  descried  ; — go  on 
some  day  when  the  white  sail  of  some  sea-bound  bark  bellies 
in  the  wind,  and  her  prow  cuts  the  silver,  dashing  into  foam 
the  bright  sunlit  waters  ;  or  when  glorying  in  the  fine  sea 
son,  and  in  his  momadic,  careless  lot,  the  fisherman  spreads 
his  small  lateen  sail,  and  feels  his  bark  bound  beneath  him 
like  a  sea-gull  tossed  upon  the  waves — when,  trusting  to  Pro 
vidence  to  guide  his  course,  he  drops  the  paddle  he  has  been 
plying,  carelessly,  and  with  closed  eyes,  dreams  in  the  broad 
sunlight  of  the  past  and  future.  Go,  on  one  of  these  days,  ana 
gliding  over  the  swaying  billows  of  the  great  stream,  see  if 
there  is  not  yet  some  fresh  delight  in  this  our  human  life — 


82  THE   SAIL-BOAT   "  NANCY." 

ft  poetry  and  romance  unstifled  in  the  heart !  On  such  a 
day  did  Beatrice  Hallam  leave  the  town  of  Williamsburg, 
with  her  father,  and  bend  her  steps  toward  the  stream." 

Thus  far,  the  author  of  the  MS.,  in  that  rhetorical  and 
enthusiastic  style  which  every  where  characterizes  his  works. 
Let  us  descend  from  the  heights  of  apostrophe  and  declama 
tion  to  the  prose  of  simple  narrative. 

Beatrice  had  received  the  assurance  of  her  father,  that 
she  should  spend  a  day  upon  the  waters,  with  a  delight 
which  may  readily  be  imagined.  She  was  a  pure  child  of 
the  wilderness,  in  spite  of  the  eternal  claims  which  an  arti 
ficial  civilization,  an  inexorable  convention,  laid  to  her  time 
and  thoughts.  She  rejoiced  in  the  forest,  and  on  the  hills  : 
—we  have  seen  her  riding  out  fearlessly,  to  drink  in  the 
fresh  splendor  of  the  autumn — now  she  anticipated  a  delight 
ful  day  upon  the  river.  Mr.  Effingham  would  not  be  there, 
with  his  insulting  advances,  his  intolerable  drawl,  his  irritat 
ing  airs  of  superiority  and  patronage.  She  would  have  the 
whole  day  to  herself.  She  had  no  performance  to  neglect; 
— no  rehearsal  to  go  to.  She  was  free  for  the  day  wholly. 

Beatrice  was  an  excellent  rider,  and  she  chose  this  mode 
of  reaching  the  river,  in  preference  to  the  light  calash, 
which  the  manager  suggested  The  good-humored  old  fel 
low  yielded  at  once,  and  mounting  a  stout  cob,  instead  of 
installing  his  corpulent  person  in  the  comfortable  vehicle, 
they  set  forth — the  young  girl  riding  her  favorite  white 
horse.  They  reached  the  bank  of  the  stream  without  in 
cident,  and  found  the  boatman,  to  whom  a  message  had  been 
sent  on  the  night  before,  ready  to  receive  them.  He  gather 
ed  up  his  fishing  lines  with  the  ease  of  a  practised  hand, 
placed  in  the  pocket  of  his  pea  jacket  the  inseparable  black 
flask  of  rum,  and  led  the  way  to  his  little  vessel.  It  was 
one  of  those  light  and  airy  barks,  which  obey  the  hand  of 
the  helmsman,  as  the  body  of  the  seabird  runs  with  the 
movement  of  the  wings,  or  turns  obedient  to  the  red,  webbed 
feet;  and  soon  it  was  gliding  over  the  water,  borne  onward 
by  a  fresh  wind,  which  filled  the  small  triangular  sail,  toward 
the  fishing  ground. 

Beatrice,  with  clasped  hands  and  dancing  eyes,  drank  in 
the  splendor  of  the  beautiful  day.  Her  cheeks  filled  with 
blood,  her  parted  lips  assumed  an  inexpressible  softness  and 


THfc  SAIL-BOAT  "NANCY."  83 

delight — she  was  free  as  the  bright  water,  and  rejoiced  like 
au  Indian  once  more  in  his  native  wilds ! — never  had  she 
looked  more  beautiful,  more  fascinating.  She  laughed,  ran 
on  with  childlike  merriment  in  her  voice  and  eyes  ;  dipped 
her  fingers  with  affected  shivering  in  the  foam  before  the 
prow,  and  startled  the  wild  sea-gulls  with  her  cries  and 
laughter.  She  was  a  child  again,  and  the  manager  said  as 
much  to  her. 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  the  young   girl,  her  whole   countenam 
radiant  with  joy  aud  pleasure,  "  you  can't  think,  father,  how 
happy  I  feel  out  here  on  the  water  !  "     I'm  nothing  but  a 
child,  you  know,  and  I  always  shall  be.     Look  at  that  bird 
with  the  white  wings  ;  how  he  darts  over  the  waves  1 " 

The  manager  smiled. 

"  It's  a  shame  to  keep  you  where  there  are  any  houses, 
child,"  he  said,  "  you  are  never  half  as  happy  as  this — in 
London,  or  any  where." 

"I  can't  be,  sir." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  feel  so  cramped  where  people  are.  They  stare 
at  me,  and  make  me  feel  badly  ;  and  often  when  I  pass,  I 
hear  them  say  who  I  am,  and  laugh." 

"  That's  because  you  act  well." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  about  acting  now,  father,  please.  I  don't 
want  to  think  of  it.  I'm  so  happy  1  Look  at  the  pretty 
foam ! " 

"  Yes — you  love  the  water." 

"  Oh,  dearly  !  you  didn't  know  how  I  spent  the  evenings 
on  the  ocean,  while  you  were  playing  ombre  with  Captain 
Fellowes." 

"  Commander  of  the  merchant-vessel  '  Charming  Sally,' " 
laughed  the  manager  ;  "  but  how  about  your  evenings  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  used  to  go  and  lean  over  the — what  are  they 
called  ?  " 

"  Bulwarks." 

"  Yes,  the  bulwarks.  I  used  to  lean  over,  and  look  at 
the  foam,  and  the  great  fish  tumbling  about  in  the  moonlight 
for  hours.  It  was  delightful !  " 

The  fresh  face  lit  up  with  a  childlike  delight,  as  the 
young  girl  spoke. 

"  Very  romantic,"  said  Mr.  Hallam,  smiling. 


84  THE    SAIL-BOAT   "NANCY.** 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  romantic,  sir,  I'm  the  most  matter-of-fact 
person  in  the  world,  but  I  couldn't  help  liking  the  foam." 

"  You  are  right — but  we  old  fellows  like  tictac  better 
than  moonlight  thinking." 

"  Yes — I  used  to  think  :  I  recollect  I  did  think." 

"What  of?" 

"  Of  the  beautiful  land  we  were  coming  to — Virginia  : 
the  Virgin  Land,  they  called  it.  How  pretty  that 
sounds !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  A  fresh,  bright  land,  where  the  wind  was  always  blow 
ing,  the  trees  always  full  of  leaves  and  flowers,  and  no  cold 
winter  to  chill  one." 

"  A  young  poet !  " 

"  No,  no,  father — I  must  have  been  born  in  the  south, 
though.  Oh,  tell  me  where  I  was  born.  You  never  told  me." 

The  manager  looked  somewhat  embarrassed,  and  replied, 
after  a  moment's  silence  :  "  We  were  at  Malta,  then,  I  be 
lieve.  But  how  did  you  find  Virginia  in  reality  ?  " 

The  young  girl's  face  assumed  a  sorrowful  expression, 
and  she  replied  :  "  Not  very  different  from  England,  sir ; 
but  it  is  pretty,  the  forest  and  all,  and  this  river.  Oh  !  " 
she  cried  suddenly,  "  look  at  that  bird  carrying  off  the  fish 
in  his  talons — stop,  sir,  stop  1" 

Mr.  Hallam  laughed  heartily.  "  What  would  they  say 
if  they  heard  Juliet  calling  after  a  sea-bird  so.  Mr.  Effing- 
ham  would  not  believe  the  account." 

"  Oh,  father  !  "  said  Beatrice,  returning  to  her  sorrowful 
expression,  "  do  not  talk  to  me  of  playing  to-day,  I  feel  so 
happy  now,  sir ;  and  don't  speak  of  that  wild  young  man  ; 
I  shall  get  angry,  and  then  be  sorry,  and  cry — and  you 
know,  father,  that  would  spoil  our  day.  Don't  speak  of 
Mr.  Effingham ;  he  looked  at  me  so,  last  night,  with  his 
eyes  on  fire,  and  his  frill  crumpled  and  torn — I  thought  it 
was  stained  with  blood." 

"  With  blood  ! " 

"  He  became  angry  with  me  for  not  attending  to  him  on 
the  stage,  in  the  last  act,  and  clutched  his  breast  with  his 
nails.  Oh,  don't  speak  of  him,"  she  added,  growing  gloomy, 
"  I  do  not  like  that  man." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  manager,  "  don't  think  too  hard 


TflE    SAIL-BOAT   "NANCY."  85 

df  him ;  he  is  young,  and  means  nothing.  I  wish  you  to 
marry  well,  much  as  I  will  lose  in  you ;  and  you  may  find 
a  mate  in  Virginia.  There,  don't  look  so  distressed.'' 

"  I  don't  want  to  marry  1"  said  Beatrice,  her  face 
clouded  over. 

"  You  don't  like  playing  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  but  I  have  you,  father,  and  I  don't  wish  to 
part  from  you.  I  can'bear  all." 

"  There  now,  dear,  don't  lose  your  bright  smiles,  and 
spoil  th*  day.  We  will  talk  no  more  of  these  matters. 
Sink  the  theatre  ! "  added  the  manager  good-humoredly, 
"  we  came  out  to  fish." 

"  At  the  ground,  squire,"  said  the  boatman.  "  Go  it, 
I'll  keep  the  craft  straight." 

And  soon  the  bright  fish  were  being  drawn  up  from  the 
water  in  numbers  which  would  have  afforded  delight  to 
Isaac  Walton,  much  as  that  worthy  gentleman  dwelt  upon 
brook-sides  and  art  in  snaring  the  solitary  trout.  They 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  morning  thus,  and  Beatrice 
forgot  her  gloom  completely. 

About  noon  the  wind  began  to  grow  fresher,  and  large 
clouds  rolled  themselves  up  from  the  western  horizon,  and 
spread  their  dark  curtain  over  the  sun.  The  boatman 
looked  at  them  with  an  experienced  eye,  then  turning  to  the 
manager,  said  :  "  Look  here,  squire ;  seems  to  me  we'ro 
goin'  to  have  a  storm.  Them  clouds  look  like  it ;  and  hear 
the  wind  !  " 

In  fact  the  forest  on  each  side  of  the  river  began  to  toss 
its  boughs  and  roll  aloft  that  wild,  surging  sound  which  the 
wind  wakea  up  in  its  passage  through  tall  trees.  The  pines 
waved  in  tho  chill  blast,  and  roared  like  great  organs ;  and 
in  addition  to  these  threatening  sounds,  the  waves  began  to 
roll  higher,  tossing  the  little  bark  like  a  nutshell,  and 
sprinkling  the  white  lateen  sail  with  snowy  foam. 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  and  we  had  better  get  to 
shore." 

"  We're  a  mile  from  the  cabin,  squire,  but  this  west 
wind  will  carry  us  down  like  a  flash.  Must  I  tie  the  sail  ?  " 

"  Oh,  let's  wait  a  little,  father,"  cried  Beatrice,  w:th 
animated  looks  and  bright  eyes,  "  the  wind  is  so  grand. 
Oh,  don't  tie  the  sail  yet !" 


86  TJtE    SAIL-BOAT   "  NANCY.'* 

"  The  wind'll  tear  it  to  tatters  if  it  keeps  crackin'  it  so 
miss,"  said  the  boatman ;  "  but  I'm  willin',  for  I'm  goin1 
to  do  all  I'm  wanted  to  do.  I  ain't  goin'  to  deny  youi 
pretty  face  any  thing." 

With  which  words  the  honest  boatman  laid  down  tran 
quilly  in  the  stern  of  the  bark,  and — first  taking  a  pull  at 
his  black  flask — applied  himself  to  the  task  of  keeping  the 
craft  before  the  wind.  Mr.  Hallam  had  yielded  to  this 
arrangement,  but  was  plainly  desirous  of  returning  imme 
diately.  He  opened  his  mouth  to  say  as  much,  but  Beatrice 
interrupted  him  before  he  could  speak. 

"  Oh,  listen,  father !  "  she  cried,  starting  up  and  steady 
ing  herself  by  clinging  to  the  slight  mast ;  "  listen  to  the 
woods  !  The  wind  roars  through  them  like  the  cannon  we 
heard  at  Dover !  How  sublime  it  sounds  !  And  look  at 
the  waves ;  they  are  beginning  to  grow  black,  I  believe,  and 
they  toss  us  about  like  a  cork  !  Oh,  how  the  wind  sobs  and 
rolls  along !  It  makes  me  so  happy  !  " 

"  Take  care,  miss!  "  said  the  boatman;  "that  mast  ia 
unsteady." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid  for  me." 

"  Come,  let  us  get  to  shore  at  once,"  said  Mr.  Hallam, 
becoming  really  alarmed. 

"  That's  easy,  sir,"  said  the  boatman  ;  "  with  the  sail  up 
the  wind'll  carry  us  down  in  a  jiffy.  Don't  be  afraid  of  up 
setting.  The  Nancy  never  served  me  such  a  trick,  and 
won't  now,  though  there  is  a  wind,  squire ;  it's  coming  worse, 
too,  but  there's  no  danger." 

And  he  caught  the  rope,  which  the  wind  was  cracking  as 
a  man  cracks  a  whip,  and,  with  a  vigorous  hand,  secured  it 
to  the  gunwale.  The  effect  was  instantaneous.  The  little 
bark,  which  before  had  merely  danced  about  on  the  waves, 
now  shot  down  the  stream  like  lightning,  cleaving  the  wavea 
which  struck  it,  and  shipping  clouds  of  foam. 

Beatrice  hailed  this  accession  of  speed  with  delight. 
Her  ardent  and  impressible  nature  rejoiced  in  the  hurly- 
burly  of  the  wind,  the  speed  of  the  bark,  the  foam  of  the 
high  waves  wetting  her  at  every  instant. 

"  Oh,  it's  delightful,  father !  "  she  cried.  "  I  could 
shout  for  joy  !  Look  at  that  little  boat,  there,  with  the  man 
m  it  so  quiet  and  easy — it  jumps  about  like  a  dry  leaf  1 " 


ffiE    SAIL-BOAT    "  NANCY.*'  8? 

The  boat,  indeed,  which  the  young  girl  was  looking  at, 
did  seem  to  be  of  no  more  strength  than  a  leaf.  It  was  a 
frail  little  canoe,  scarcely  large  enough  it  seemed  to  hold  a 
child,  and  beautifully  built.  The  sides  were  painted  with 
great  taste,  and  the  prow  ran  up  in  a  curving  point,  which 
dashed  aside  the  foaming  water  like  a  steel  blade  In  the 
stern  of  the  canoe  a  young  man  was  seated,  holding  in  his 
hand  a  paddle,  with  which  he  both  propelled  and  guided  the 
skiff  on  its  path  toward  the  shore.  The  young  man  seemed 
to  be  no  stranger  to  such  storms  as  the  present,  and,  without 
paying  any  attention  to  the  foam  which  broke  over  him,  looked 
intently  at  the  sail-boat. 

"  Oh,  how  it  darts  !  "  cried  Beatrice  ;  "  look,  the  wind 
struck  it  then,  and  it  jumped  out  of  the  water  ! " 

"  Take  care,  miss  1  "  cried  the  boatman  ;  "  if  she  veers 
you'll  fall  overboard  !  " 

"  Take  care,  my  daughter !  "  echoed  Mr.  Hallam;  "there 
is  a  tremendous  gust  of  wind  coming  right  down.  Get 
down  !  " 

"  Steady  !  "  cried  the  boatman ;  "  this  is  a  roarer ;  take 
care  of  the  mast,  miss  !  Sit  down  1 " 

It  was  too  late.  Beatrice  made  a  movement  to  obey,  but 
before  she  had  regained  her  seat,  and  while  she  yet  clung  to 
the  mast,  the  frail  pole  bent  beneath  the  powerful  blast,  the 
sail  almost  doubled  up,  and  the  spar  snapping  like  a  reed, 
precipitated  the  young  girl  into  the  stream.  A  huge  wave 
bore  her  ten  feet  from  the  bark  in  an  instant,  and,  passing 
over  her,  swallowed  the  fair  form  in  its  gloomy  depths. 
The  fat  manager  was  struck  motionless  with  horror,  and  the 
boatman,  dropping  his  paddle,  leaped  into  the  stream.  But 
another  saviour  was  before  him.  The  young  man  in  the 
skiff  had  approached  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  sail-boat, 
when  the  gust  struck  her,  and  his  canoe  was  darting  directly 
across  the  wake  of  the  bark  when  the  mast  snapped.  At  the 
same  moment  he  seemed  to  have  recognized  the  young  wo 
man — and,  uttering  an  exclamation  which  was  drowned  in 
the  shrill  blast,  threw  himself  into  the  waves,  and  catching 
her  half-submerged  form  as  she  rose,  struck  out  with  the 
ease  of  a  practised  swimmer. 

Beatrice  was  a  dead  weight  on  his  arm,  and  he  soon  felt 
that  exhaustion  which  the  strongest  swimmer  experiences, 


8R  SEQUEL    TO    THE    ADVEJTTUtlE. 

itruck  every  moment  in  the  face  by  surges  strong  enough  to 
ingulf  a  giant.  The  boatman,  swimming  with  the  wind 
and  foam  blinding  him,  could  not  come  to  his  assistance — 
the  two  forms  struggled  with  the  devouring  waves  in  vain 
— a  huge  billow  passed  over  the  young  man's  head,  and  he 
sank,  clasping  to  his  heart  the  chill  form  of  the  girl.  As  he 
rose  for  the  last  time,  one  of  those  providences  which  watch 
over  us,  giving  the  lie  to  chance,  was  the  means  of  his  salva 
tion.  His  shoulder  struck  against  the  boat,  which  had  been 
swept  to  the  spot  by  the  wind ;  and,  as  he  caught  its  gun 
wale,  he  felt  the  body  of  the  young  girl  weigh  less  upon 
him.  He  was  taken  into  the  sail-boat,  he  knew  not  how — 
he  saw  a  woman  whom  he  had  saved  lying  lifeless  before 
him — a  rude  boatman  chafing  her  temples — a  corpulent 
man  weeping  and  still  grasping  a  billet  of  wood  with  which 
he  had  plunged  into  the  waves — and  then  he  fell  exhausted, 
overcome. 

The  first  words  which  he  heard  when  he  came  to  himself, 
were : 

"  Well,  squire,  she's  all  right  now  :  only  a  little  wetting. 
Here  we  are  at  neighbour  Waters',  and  that's  his  son,  that 
saved  the  young  woman." 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

SEQUEL  TO  THE  ADVENTURE. 

THE  fat  manager  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  weep. 
She  was  saved!  that  was  all  he  was  conscious  of;  and  he 
scarcely  knew  how  he  got  on  shore.  Beatrice,  who  had  by 
this  time  revived  wholly,  though  she  still  shivered  with  cold 
and  terror,  was  borne  to  dry  land  by  the  strong  boatman ; 
and  the  rest  following,  the  whole  party  was  safe  from  the 
storm,  which  raged  more  furiously  still,  at  thus  being  forced 
to  give  up  its  prey. 

Before  them  rose  a  rough  but  comfortable  cottage,  which 
from  its  bluff,  overlooked  the  river  up  and  down  for  miles. 
A  walk  of  ten  minutes  brought  them  to  the  door,  and  within 
a  cheerful  fire  was  burning,  apparently  made  necessary  by 
the  high  and  exposed  situation  of  the  house.  The  boatman 


SEQUEL   TO   THE   ADVENTURE.  89 

deposited,  we  may  almost  say,  the  young  girl  on  a  comfort 
able  chair.  She  had  been  supported  from  the  landing  be 
tween  the  honest  fellow  and  her  father — the  young  man 
walking  iu  silence  before. 

After  thus  getting  rid  of  his  charge,  the  boatman  turned 
to  greet  the  owner  of  the  mansion,  saying : 

"  Well,  neighbour  Waters,  here's  a  mess ! — the  young 
lady's  been  overboard  and  nigh  gone." 

The  host  was  an  old  man  of  sixty-five  or  more  :  in  every 
thing  about  him,  the  simplicity  of  his  nature  was  manifest. 
His  open  features  were  almost  constantly  lit  up  by  a  cheer 
ful  smile,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  kindness  and  good-humor. 
He  was  clad  as  the  humbler  class  were  almost  universally  at 
that  day — in  a  broad-skirted  coat  of  drab  cloth,  with  plain 
cuffs,  but  turned  back  after  the  fashion  of  the  time  :  his 
stockings  were  of  wool,  and  his  waistcoat  was  of  plain  serge, 
with  large  pockets,  and  reaching  almost  to  the  knees.  On 
his  feet  he  wore  heavy,  thick-soled  shoes ;  and  his  gray  hair, 
gathered  in  a  club  behind,  was  free  from  powder. 

To  the  boatman's  address,  he  replied,  cheerily  : 

"  Overboard  !  how  so,  neighbor  Townes  ?  and  in  your 
craft  ?  I  never  hearn  tell  of  such  a  thing  bappenin'  to  you 
before.  The  pretty  bird  !  we  must  see  how  to  fix  her.  Sit 
down,  sir :  sit  down — your  daughter,  I  reckon.  Well,  well, 
this  is  a  bad  day  to  be  on  the  water.  How  does  the  young 
lady  feel  now  ?  " 

Beatrice  had  profited  by  the  cheering  blaze,  and  replied 
quietly,  though  with  a  slight  shiver  : 

"  I  am  a  great  deal  better  than  I  was,  sir :  I  owe  you 
many  thanks  for  your  kindness," 

"  No  kindness  in  the  world,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I'm 
poor  and  sin  pie,  but  you're  heartily  welcome." 

"  Poor  aud  simple  as  you  say  you  are,  neighbor,"  here 
broke  in  the  boatman,  "  there  ain't  a  squire  about  here  equal 
to  you :  and  I've  been  knowin'  you  this  thirty  years :  and 
Charley,"  here  he  looked  at  the  young  man,  who  had  taken 
his  seat  in  silence,  "  Charley  is  a  chip  of  the  old  block.  Ef 
it  hadn't  been  for  him,  the  young  lady'd  a  been  at  Davy 
Jones'  locker  by  now." 

"Why,  did  Charley?" 

"  Yes,  he  did  so,  neighbor;  he  saved  the  young  'ooman. 


JO  SEQUEL    TO    THE    ADVENTURE. 

A.8  for  me,  I'm  most  nigh  'shamed  to  say  it,  but  the  wind  and 
foam  blinded  me. " 

"  Well,  well — it's  what  Charley  ought  'a  done,  and  there's 
an  end  on  it.  Now  we'll  see  to  a  room  for  you,  miss,"  he  said 
to  Beatrice  ;  "  you  musn't  move  to-day.  I  don't  know  you, 
but  you're  welcome  to  any  thing  old  John  Waters  owns." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Waters,"  said  the  fat  maua- 
ger,  who  had  been  looking  around  him,  "  but  we  had  better 
get  back  to  town.  Our  horses  are  down  at  your  house, 
friend,"  he  added,  to  the  boatman ;  "  couldn't  you  bring  'em 
here  ?  " 

"  Easiest  thing  in  life.  Jest  give  me  time  to  swallow 
a  drop  ;  and  that  puts  me  in  mind,  won't  you  take  somethin' 
yourself,  'squire,  and  the  young  lady  ?  Neighbor  Waters 
drinks  nothing  but  water — he  don't." 

Mr.  Manager  Hallam  received  this  proposal  with  extreme 
satisfaction,  and  no  doubt  reflecting  that  it  was  just  "  what 
the  great  Congreve  "  would  have  done — a  favorite  authority 
with  him — emptied  nearly  half  a  pint.  Beatrice,  however, 
refused  the  rum,  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 

"  Now,  I'll  take  Sam,  neighbor,"  said  the  boatman,  "  and 
jog  down.  There's  Lanky  onhitchin'  him.  'Seems  to  me 
the  sooner  I  am  back  the  better." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  and  there's  a  pistole,"  said  Mr.  Hallam. 

The  boatman  received  the  money  doubtfully,  hesitated, 
then  pocketed  it ;  finally,  mounting  Sam,  a  rough-looking 
cart-horse,  harness  and  all.  clattered  off  through  the  whirling 
leaves  of  the  forest  toward  his  cabin. 

"  But  you  ain't  goin'  to  take  the  young  lady  away  so 
soon,"  said  old  John  Waters  ;  "  she'll  catcb  the  agy,  friend. 
We'll  have  a  room  for  her — the  little  place  up  there — fixed 
in  no  time.  Lanky's  just  come  from  town,  and  will  make  a 
blazing  fire." 

"  I  think  we  had  better  get  back,"  said  Hallam,  un 
easily  ;  "  eh,  daughter  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  I  feel  quite  strong  now,  and  would  like  to 
ride.  I  never  can  thank  you,  sir,  and — and  your  son, 
enough  for  what  you  have  done.  He  saved  my  life." 

"  Oh,"  laughed  the  old  fisherman,  "  that's  his  place — 
you're  a  weak  little  thing,  and  couldn't  "be  expected  to  take 
keer  of  yourself — not  a  strong  woman,  either ;  only  a  little 
easy-iiviu'  lady." 


SEQUEL    TO    THE   ADVENTURE.  ft 

"  Oh  no,  sir,"  said  Beatrice,  with  her  lip  twitching,  "  I  am 
only  an  actress." 

u  An  actress  !— what's  that  ?  Oh—" 

"  My  name  is  Beatrice  Hallam,"  said  the  young  g  j-1,  re 
gaining  her  calmness. 

"  Well !  did  any  one  ever  !  "  said  the  old  man,  "  the  young 
lady  that  played  ! — I  heard  all  about  you,  the  other  day,  and 
made  Charley  go  to  see  the  playin' :  and  he  said  a  heap  in 
your  favor.  Charley,  you  know,"  said  the  old  fellow,  with  a 
smile,  "  aint  much  given  to  these  things — and  I  'most  fear  he 
hurts  his  health  over  his  books — look  through  the  door,  there 
what  a  parcel !  He  works  hard,  too,  in  the  field,  and  helps 
me  with  the  seine,  but  he's  been  studyin'  too  much  lately 
I  told  him  so  :  and  says  I,  '  Charley,  you'd  better  go  to  town 
and  take  some  rest :  go  and  see  the  players.'  At  first  he 
wouldn't  hear  of  it ;  but  he  went,  and  praised  you  a  heap,  I 
can  tell  you,  Miss ;  though  I'm  bound  to  say  he  didn't  say 
much  in  favor  of  young  Squire  Effin'ham." 

Beatrice  flushed  to  her  forehead,  and  stole  a  glance  at 
the  young  man.  He  rose,  and  seeming  to  banish  with  an  ef 
fort  the  thoughts  which  preoccupied  his  mind,  said,  in  a  grave 
and  serious  voice  : 

"  I  confess,  Miss  Hallam,  that  your  acting  was  faultless, 
as  far  as  I  could  judge  of  it ;  and  my  father  has  not  misun 
derstood  my  opinion  of  Mr.  Effingham's  very  unworthy  con 
duct  toward  yourself.  But  let  us  dismiss  all  these  matters 
— you  must  be  greatly  fatigued,  and  not  much  disposed  to 
listen  to  conversation.  We  are  very  poor,  here,  as  you  see, 
but  can  give  you,  and  you  also,  Mr.  Hallam,  shelter  for  th« 
night.  Remain." 

Beatrice  gazed  a  moment  furtively  at  the  noble  and 
thoughtful  face,  allowed  the  last  sound  of  the  clear  voice  to 
die  away,  then  replied  : 

"  We  had  better  return,  sir — indeed,  we  should  not  refuse 
your  kindness,  I  know  :  but — " 

"  Yes,  we  must  return :  you  have  not  dried  your  own 
clothes  even,  sir,"  said  the  manager,  "  and  we  are  under  suffi 
cient  obligation  for  one  day.  You  saved  my  daughter's  life, 
sir — God  reward  you." 

"  I  did  nothing  but  what  I  should  have  done,  Mr.  Hal 
lam.  My  father  has  told  yott  that  it  was  my  simple  duty, 


92  SEQIEL   TO  THE   ADVESTOBB. 

and  there  was  little  risk.     Had  there  been  real  risk,  I  trust 
I  should  still  have  done  my  duty." 

"  I  know  you  would,  Charley,"  said  the  old  man  proud 
ly,  "  you'd  throw  your  life  away  for  a  child :  and  I  rather 
think  Mr.  Emngham  would  a  had  a  hard  time,  if  you  had 
met  after  the  play  ! " 

"  Come — come,  father,"  said  the  young  man,  gravely,  "  do 
not  repeat  my  follies.  I  have  repented  it.  Harsh  words  do 
no  good." 

"  If  what  you  said  was  true,  he  deserved  'em  and  more," 
naid  old  Waters  :  "  you  can't  deny  it !  " 

"  Well,  yes  !  he  deserved  harsh  comment  1  you  are 
right ! "  said  the  youug  man,  his  face  flushing,  "  for  he  in 
sulted  and  annoyed  a  woman.  We  cannot  go  far  wrong  in 
saying  that  the  man  who  annoys  a  woman  or  a  child,  must 
have  a  bad  heart,  and  ungenerous  and  narrow  soul !  " 

The  young  man's  voice,  ordinarily  grave  and  simple, 
changed,  as  he  uttered  these  words  :  and  his  flushed  face 
positively  overawed  the  fat  manager,  who,  feeling  his  own 
character  of  paterfamilias  indirectly  called  in  question,  was 
about  to  speak,  and  ask  Beatrice  the  particulars  of  Mr. 
Effingham's  conduct.  His  tone  was  so  firm  and  proud — his 
eye  so  clear  and  full  of  disdain — his  attitude  so  erect  and 
noble,  as  he  uttered  these  words,  that  the  wide  apartment, 
with  its  fishing-nets,  and  rough  chairs  and  tables,  seemed  to 
grow  brilliant  and  imposing — mind  penetrating  matter,  and 
transforming  it  to  its  own  likeness. 

Beatrice  Hallam  felt  her  face  fill  with  blood,  her  heart 
throb  :  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  found  the  nature 
which  heaven  had  moulded  in  the  form  of  her  own,  and  when 
the  young  man,  apparently  regretting  his  excitement,  mo 
mentary  as  it  was,  returned  in  silence  to  his  seat,  her  lus 
trous  glances,  brilliant  as  light  itself,  but  dimmed  by  a  haze 
of  emotion,  followed  him,  and  could  not  withdraw  themselves 
from  him. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  the  boatman  returned  with 
the  horses,  and  the  manager,  who  began  to  feel  some  embar 
rassment,  rose  to  go. 

"  We've  treated  you  very  bad  considerin',"  said  -he  old 
man,  "  but  the  fire  here  was  about  the  best  thing  for  you,  I 
thought,  after  the  wettiu'.  Lanky's  makiii'  the  fire  now  for 


SEQUEL   TO   THE   ADVENTURE.  93 

the  young  lady :  but  'sides  that,  we  had  in  the  way  o'  clothea 
nothin'  much  better  'n  a  peajacket  to  offer  her,  and  you  said 
the  rum  was  the  best  thing  for  you  after  the  wettin'." 

"  All  I  wanted — all  I  wanted,  sir,"  said  the  manager, 
with  a  good-humored  laugh. 

"  And  I  am  nearly  quite  dry  now,  sir,"  said  Beatrice, 
with  a  timid  smile ;  "  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness  to 
me,  Mr.  Waters." 

And  she  pressed  with  her  small  fingers  the  huge,  hearty 
hand  of  the  old  fisherman,  and  then  held  out  the  same  little 
hand  to  his  son,  who  pressed  it  with  a  sensation  at  his  heart 
which  he  could  not  understand. 

"  Strange  ! "  he  said,  as  they  turned  away,  "  I  seem  to 
have  met  this  young  girl  in  some  other  world — well,  well,  the 
common  fancy  ! ' 

And  following  Beatrice  to  the  door,  he  assisted  her  to 
mount — which  operation  was  somewhat  embarrassed  by  the 
long  riding  dress,  brought  with  the  horses  from  the  boat' 
man's  cabin — after  which  the  guests  set  forward  toward 
Williamsburg. 

"  Waters — Waters  ?  I  seem  to  have  heard  that  name  be 
fore,  father,"  said  Beatrice,  "  and  really  seem  to  have  known 
Mr.  Charles." 

"  It's  a  very  common  name,"  replied  the  manager,  "  and 
we  often  find  these  resemblances.  How  the  evening  has 
cleared  off.  I  don't  think  any  rain  has  fallen ;  the  storm 
must  have  passed  off  to  the  southward." 

Whether  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  wished  to  turn  the  con- 
veisation  or  not,  remains  a  mystery:  but  if  such  was  his 
design,  it  succeeded  perfectly,  and  Beatrice  began  to  talk 
about  the  adventures  through  which  they  had  passed.  Soon 
the  houses  of  the  town  came  in  sight,  and  they  passed 
along,  and  drew  up  before  the  "  Raleigh." 

Beatrice  changed  her  wet  garments,  and  felt  no  bad 
effects  from  her  accident  beyond  a  slight  chill.  One  would 
have  said  that  the  warmth  at  her  heart  vivified  her  person, 
and  defied  the  chilly  waters  of  the  river.  All  that  evening, 
while  the  fat  manager  was  relating  the  adventures  of  the 
day,  she  sat  studying,  apparently  ;  but  merely  her  dreamy 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  page. 

Of  what  was  she  thinking,  and  why  that  flush  upon  thf 
face,  that  light  in  the  veiled  eyes  ? 


64       ME..  EFFINGHAM  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL. 

CHAPTER    XVII. 

MB.  EFFINGHAM  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL. 

ON  the  next  morning,  just  as  Beatrice  was  binding  up  her 
hair  before  the  single  mirror  of  her  small  sitting-room,  she 
heard  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  answering,  "  Come  in,"  she 
saw  through  the  open  door  Mr.  Champ  Effingham,  who  en 
tered  the  apartment  with  a  smile. 

"  Ah,  good  morning,  charming  Miss  Beatrice  !  "  he  said, 
with  a  pleased  air,  too  elaborate  indeed  not  to  be  somewhat 
affected ;  "  how  is  your  ladyship  to-day  ?  " 

Beatrice  uttered  a  sigh  of  despair,  with  which  no  little 
irritation  was  commingled.  She,  however,  remembered  the 
wish  her  father  had  expressed,  that  she  should  not  receive 
her  visitor  harshly,  and  this  consideration  silenced  the 
haughty  reply  which  rose  to  her  lips,  though  it  could  not 
subdue  the  flash  in  her  proud,  brilliant  eye. 

"  I  am  very  well,  sir,"  she  said. 

"  For  which  reason,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham,  playing 
with  his  ruffle,  and  sitting  down  languidly,  "  you  receive  mo 
very  ill." 

"  No,  sir ;  my  reception  is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other ; 
but  you  have  mo  right  to  expect  a  very  friendly  reception." 

"  Why  not  friendly  ?  " 

"  Can  you  ask,  sir  1  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  reply,  then,  sir." 

"  Ah,  ah !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  first  smoothing  the 
feather  in  his  cocked  hat,  then  negligently  playing  with  the 
bright  hilt  of  his  short  sword ;  "  ah,  you  are  thinking  about 
my  naughty  behavior  in  the  theatre  the  other  evening." 

"  I  have  forgotten  all,  sir."  she  said  calmly. 

"  Well,  well,  I  have  come  to-day  to  ask  your  ladyship 
to  pardon  these  various  exhibitions  of  ill-humor.  My  un 
fortunate  ruffle,  which  you,  no  doubt,  observed,  had  suffered 
somewhat  in  the  melee,  proved  to  me  the  next  morning  that 
I  must  have  been  rather  violent.  The  fact  is,  1  was  in  a 
bad  humor— out  of  temper — a  most  mortifying  acknow 
ledgment  for  a  star  of  fashion  and  nonchalance  like  myself 
but  skill  true." 


ME.    EFFINGHAM    MAKES    A    FRIENDLY    CALL.  99 

Beatrice  made  no  reply. 

"  Granted !  I  was  out  of  sorts — nervous,  in  a  bad 
humor ;  but,  this  morning,  I  am  in  a  delightful  state  of 
mind.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  embrace  the  whole  world,  your 
self  included  with  the  most  fraternal  and  enthusiastic 
regard.  Am  I  not  in  an  enviable  state  of  mind  ?  But 
this  is  nothing  to  you.  Ah  1  you  take  very  little  interest 
in  my  welfare,  I  am  really  afraid,  and  have  not  forgiven,  as 
such  a  lovely  saint  should,  what  I  have  been  guilty  of. 
Come,  my  charming  Miss  Beatrice,  exert  your  amiability, 
and  pardon  all." 

Beatrice,  with  her  quick  eye,  easily  discerned  the  painful 
emotion  beneath  this  raillery — the  fire  concealed  beneath 
the  ashes.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  then  said  : 

"  I  am  not  revengeful  or  unforgiving,  sir,  and  the  painful 
ordeal  you  subjected  me  to  in  the  theatre  is  already  forgot 
ten.  Now,  sir,  I  must  go  to  rehearsal." 

"  Bah  !  don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Beatrice,  and,  above  all, 
don't  pity  me ;  I  am  not  a  man  to  be  pitied ;  and,  as  to 
rehearsal,  that  can  wait  a  little,  while  we  have  a  short  con 
versation.  You  have  a  charming  voice,  and  this  morning  I 
am  really  wearied  to  death.  Come,  amuse  me." 

"  I  have  no  time  to  converse,  sir ;  I  must  leave  you." 

"  Come,  come :  don't  be  so  unamiable — you  may  go  di 
rectly  ! " 

Beatrice  sat  down,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation,  instead  ot 
leaving  the  room,  as  she  felt  tempted  to  do.  Her  father's 
wish  made  her  patient. 

"  Where  were  you  yesterday  ?  " 

"  We  went  to  the  river,  sir,  for  a  saiL" 

'  To  the  James  ?  " 

1  Yes,  sir." 

'  Why  did  you  not  send  me  word  ?  " 

'  Send  you  word — why,  sir  ?" 

'  Why,  my  new  sailboat  is  just  launched,  and  we  might 
have  had  a  delightful  day  in  her." 

"  We  had  a  very  good  one." 

"  Any  adventures  ?  " 

"  I  fell  into  the  river,  sir." 

"  The  devil !     And  how  did  you  get  to  land  ?  " 

"  A  gentleman  rescued  me." 


96      MR.  EFFINGHAM  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL. 

"  A  gentleman — who,  in  heaven's  name  ? 

Beatrice  felt  her  face  flush,  half  with  embarassment — • 
half  with  anger,  at  this  persevering  cross-examination.  For  a 
moment  she  hesitated;  but  her  frank  and  fearless  nature 
made  her  reply  almost  instantly, 

"  Mr.  Charles  Waters,  sir." 

"  Charles  Waters !  "  cried  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a  sudden 
pallor,  and  a  flash  of  the  eye,  which  revealed  the  volcano 
beneath  his  affected  carelessness. 

"  Mr.  Charles  Waters,"  said  Beatrice,  calmly  and  firm 
ly,  "to  him  I  am  indebted  for  my  existence,  at  this  moment." 

A  flush  of  hatred  passed  over  Mr.  Effingham 's  brow, 
and  he  said,  with  a  sneer: 

"  Ah,  your  cavalier  1  I  had  forgotten,  Madam." 

Beatrice  felt  her  heart  throb  with  anger,  and  a  scornful 
answer  arose  to  her  lips :  but  she  repressed  these  evidences 
of  feeling,  and  said  coldly : 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  I  will  not  exchange  another  word  with 
you,  if  I  am  to  be  insulted  thus.  Mr.  Waters  is,  as  you  well 
know,  almost  a  perfect  stranger  to  me,  and  I  am  nothing  to 
him : "  with  which  the  lip  trembled :  "  he  saved  my  life 
yesterday,  at  the  peril  of  his  own,  and  I  owe  to  him  deep 
gratitude.  For  this  reason,  sir,  you  will  understand  that 
I  am  not  the  proper  sympathizer  with  your  dissatisfaction. 
Now,  sir,  I  must  go." 

Mr.  Effingham  made  a  powerful  effort  over  himself,  and 
burst  into  a  laugh  which  was  painful  to  hear. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  he  in  vain  en 
deavored  to  render  careless  and  easy,  "  we  won't  quarrel 
about  the  Chevalier  Waters.  I'm  sure  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  him  for  restoring  to  the  community  so  charming 
an  actress ;  though,  as  I  always  had  a  partiality  for  heroism, 
especially  being  heroic  myself,  when  nothing  was  to  be  lost 
by  it,  I  regret  that  the  present  grand  effort  was  not  made 
by  myself.  Come  1  don't  burn  me  with  your  eyes." 

"  I  must  go,  sir." 

"  Without  pardoning  my  naughty  treatment  of  you  in 
the  theatre  ?  Wasn't  it  horrible  f  " 

"  Yes,  sir  I  "  said  Beatrice,  flushing ;  "  it  was  unmanly." 

"  Striking  coincidence  of  opinion,  at  least.  Yes,  it  was 
dreadful ;  and  do  you  know  what  occurred  when  I  was  mak- 


Mt.    EFFINGHAM    MAKES   A   FRIENDL?   CALL.  9? 

Ing  my  exit,  right  of  centre  ? — that  is  the  phrase,  I  believe 
• — why,  I  very  nearly  ran  over  a  young  lady  with  whom  I 
am  dead  in  love." 

Beatrice  looked  at  the  young  man  with  a  strange  expres 
sion.  Had  she  met  with  a  real  life  actor  superior  to  her 
self  ? 

"  Just  so,"  continued  Mr.  Effingham,  bursting  into  laugh 
ter  ;  "  my  ch£re  amie,  you  know — one  of  the  most  beautiful, 
highborn,  and  wealthy  young  girls  in  the  colony;  pretty, 
fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  all  that — just  opposed  to  your  style. 
Did  you  see  her  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  Well,  you  might  have  done  so.  I'm  certain  she  saw 
you,  and  possibly  had  a  view  of  the  attack  upon  my  ruffles, 
when  I  accidentally  scratched  myself,  you  know.  In  going 
out,  I  placed  my  foot  upon  her  dress,  and  nearly  tore  a  fur 
below  away.  What  horrible  awkwardness  1  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself." 

"  Your  tone  is  bitter,  sir." 

"  Bitter  ?  Not  at  all !  I  am  ready  to  laugh  now,  re 
flecting  on  the  melodrama.  After  the  affair  of  the  furbelow, 
the  hero  made  his  exit — myself,  that  is  to  say — and  then  I 
rode  quietly  away,  accomplishing  the  first  ten  miles  in  fifteen 
minutes,  I  believe." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  you  seem  to  me  to  be  laboring  under 
gome  bitter  emotion  ;  you  shock  me.  If  you  love  a  lady,  do 
not,  sir,  do  not  abandon  her  for  me.  I  know  not  what  I  say, 
sir, — I  only  know  that  you  banish  all  sunshine  from  my  life. 
I  have  not  enough  to  spare,  sir.  For  heaven's  sake,  leave  me." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  losing  his  forced 
gayety,  "  I  am  carried  away  by  my  infatuation — I  love  you." 

"  Sir  !  you  must  not — " 

"  Bah  !  "  he  said,  gloomily ;  "  don't  let  us  mince  matters." 

"  I  must  go,  sir." 

"  Not  before  giving  me  one  word  not  altogether  harsh." 

"  I  must  go,  sir — " 

"  Beatrice  Hallam,  you  are  the  most  bitter  and  unrea 
sonable  of  women.  You  choose  to  despise  me,  because  I 
seek  you ;  you  are  not  only  unreasonable,  you  are  a  woman 
without  heart ! " 

Beatrice  suppressed  her  emotion,  and  said : 
5 


93  JtR.    BFFINGHAM   MAKES   A    FRIENDLY    CALL. 

"  No,  sir ;  that  is  unjust.  I  am  not  a  woman  without 
heart — I  have  feelings,  deep  feelings.' 

"  I  have  never  discovered  them." 

"  You  do  not  know  me,  sir." 

"  Ah,  you  mistake,  madam ;  I  know  you  welL" 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  go,  sir." 

"  I  prefer  remaining." 

"  I  must  then  leave  you,  sir." 

Mr.  Emngham  rose  with  a  threatening  gesture;  but, 
collecting  himself,  sat  down  again. 

"  Ah,  madam,"  he  said,  with  gloomy  bitterness ;  "  you 
are  very  prudish :  you  hate  me — Mr.  Charles  Waters  takea 
you  in  his  arms — I  cannot  approach  you." 

"  Sir !  "  said  Beatrice,  indignantly,  "  I  avoid  you,  be 
cause  I  feel  that  you  are  not  a  proper  companion  for  me.  No, 
sir !  I  am  not  prudish — I  am  no  silly  girl.  My  life  has 
been  hard  and  changeable — my  fate  adverse.  I  have  em 
braced  the  profession  of  the  stage  from  necessity.  My  father 
was  an  actor.  I  am  an  actress  because  I  am  his  daughter. 
As  an  actress,  I  know  that  I  am  exposed  to  a  thousand 
temptations,  and  a  thousand  insults.  I  know  very  well  that 
we  are  considered  the  bond  slaves  of  the  public,  especially 
of  the  aristocratic  portion.  But  I  will  not  accept  the  ques 
tionable  attentions  of  yourself,  or  any  other  young  gentle 
man,  who  is  trained  to  look  upon  me,  and  upon  persons 
of  my  profession  as  infinitely  beneath  him — as  so  many 
slaves.  No,  sir !  I  have  chosen  to  go  and  exhibit  myself 
in  public,  that  the  bread  I  eat  may  be  honestly  procured. 
After  the  theatre,  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  will  not  have  my 
name  tossed  from  mouth  to  mouth  unworthily — remember, 
sir." 

The  young  girl  looked  so  lovely  at  that  moment — her 
beautiful  eyes  flashed  such  vivid  lightning — her  rosy  face 
was  so  eloquent  with  indignation,  that  Mr.  Emngham  found 
words  fail  him — lost  in,  overwhelmed  as  he  was  by,  her 
splendid  and  fiery  beauty. 

"  You  are  a  strange  actress,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  low, 
deep-toned  voice,  "  and  certainly  unlike  any  other  I  have 
ever  seen.  Yes,  I  have  seen  many  actresses,  in  France, 
Italy,  England,  every  where,  and  I  find  in  you  nothing  like 
khem.  Well:  you  say  you  are  no  common  comedienne,  and 


MR.    EFFINGHAM   MAKES   A   FRIENDLY   CALL.  99 

you  see  that  I  agree  with  you.  You  hint  that  I  would  be 
apt  to  abuse  any  friendship  you  granted  me — I  do  not  say 
you  are  wrong  there.  There  is  some  truth  in  your  views,  and 
I  find  no  fault  with  you.  But,  at  least,  I  should  not  scoff 
at  you  : — I  might  bless  you,  or  only  mention  your  name  with 
a  curse  upon  my  lip — but  I  do  not  think  I  could  do  aught 
else.  For  you  are  not  indifferent  to  me.  You  smile  :  you 
think  I  am  very  inconsistent.  But  when  I  say  that  I  can 
never  treat  your  name  as  that  of  an  indifferent  woman,  I 
mean  this  :  I  mean  that  from  our  first  meeting  in  the  forest, 
near  the  Hall  yonder,  your  image  has  dwelt  in  my  mind  and 
heart — or  if  not  quite  in  my  heart,  to  be  frank,  at  least  in 
my  memory.  At  the  theatre  we  met  again,  and  I  treated 
you  as  gentlemen  are  accustomed  to  treat  actresses ;  for  I 
laughed  at  my  feelings.  You  received  that  treatment  as  be 
came  you — you  are  a  noble  girl — and  I  went  away  cursing 
and  loving  you  almost.  I  spent  a  bad  night  after  the  play, 
and  worse  since — I  came  here  to-day  to  jeer  at  you.  In 
place  of  further  jeering,  I  bow  to  you,  and  offer  you  respect 
and  admiration,  if  not  love,  and  ask  your  friendship  in 
return." 

Beatrice  betrayed  some  feeling  at  these  earnest  words, 
and  no  longer  looked  at  the  young  man  so  disdainfully. 

"  I  have  listened  to  you,  sir,"  she  said,  "  and  I  request 
you  to  pardon  any  harshness  in  what  I  have  but  now  said. 
But,  let  me  here  say,  what  you  will  feel  to  be  true,  and  no 
less  true  than  unchangeable — that  there  can  be  nothing  in 
common  between  us.  You  cannot  be  my  friend — visiting 
and  talking  unreservedly  with  me  as  friends  may — without 
causing  a  scandal  in  the  Colony  : — a  scandal  which  will  be 
as  injurious  to  yourself  as  to  me.  Now,  sir,  you  had  better 
leave  me.  We  may  meet  again — indeed,  I  have  it  not  in 
my  power  to  refuse  to  meet  you — in  the  theatre.  This  is 
not  an  invitation,  for  I  say  again,  there  cannot  and  must  not 
be  any  thing  in  common  between  an  actress,  like  myself,  and 
Mr.  Eflinghain.  Good  evening,  sir." 

Mr.  Effmgham  stood  looking  at  the  young  woman  in 
silence,  with  an  expression  upon  his  countenance  which  she 
could  not  understand  At  last  he  said,  with  a  pale  lip,  and 
very  abruptly  : 

"  A.re  you  acting  ?  " 


100     MR.  EFFINGHAM  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL. 

"  No,  sir  !  "  said  the  young  girl,  indignantly. 

"  Then  you  are  a  prodigy  of  truth  and  nobleness,"  In 
eaid,  with  a  lightning-like  glance.  "  Come,  come,  let  me 
throw  aside  all  this  sophistry  with  which  I  am  trying  to  de 
ceive  myself.  I  love  you  !  "  he  said,  gloomily. 

The  young  girl  drew  back. 

'  You  shall  love  me  in  return  !  "  he  said. 

And  there  was  so  much  haughtiness  in  his  tone  that  her 
cheek  flushed. 

"  5Tou  are  consistent,  sir,"  she  said;  "just  now,  your  re 
gard  for  me  was  slight,  you  said — at  least,  I  thought  so." 

"  As  you  please — I  do  not  know  whether  I  love  you  or 
not,  and  am  sure  I  love  another.  But  what  I  do  know  is, 
that  there  is  something  about  you,  which  tears  me  from  all 
else  toward  you,  my  beautiful  diabolical  syren !  " 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  you  really  seem  to  have  grown  mad : 
let  our  interview  end  here." 

"  I  am  mad,  and  it  is  you  who  have  driven  me  urazy. 
Beatrice  !  mine  is  a  family  of  fiery  traits — we  love  or  hate 
strongly,  and  do  nothing  by  halves.  I  am  not  unlike  my 
ancestors.  Look  at  me  !  I  am  a  petit  maitre — exhausting 
my  life  in  idleness  and  ease.  Why  ?  Because  I  need  some 
great  passion.  Now  I  have  opened  my  breast  to  you,  and  I 
add,  that  you  will  be  my  passion." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  dismiss  all  thought  of  me.  I  am  an 
actress,  sir — an  actress  :  my  associates  are  players,  those 
who  are  now  waiting  for  me  yonder,  sir — no  other  persons : 
a  barrier  is  raised  between  me  and  the  world,  by  my  profes 
sion.  For  the  hundredth  time,  I  say  we  can  have  nothing  in 
common.  Even  now  your  presence  is  causing  discussion  in 
the  room  below,  and  rude  lips  jeer  me.  Oh,  sir  !  leave  me, 
for  heaven's  sake  !  If  you  have  any  regard  for  me,  go,  and 
end  this  trying  interview  !  " 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then,  putting 
his  hat  on,  left  the  room,  full  of  gloomy  rage,  but  with  a 
sneering  lip  Ten  minutes  afterwards  he  left  the  town. 


THE   KAN   IN    THE   RED    CLOAK.  .01 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  EED  CLOAK. 

JUST  as  Mr.  Champ  Effingham  left  Williamsburg,  by  the 
western  road — his  splendid  animal  careering  at  full  gallop  in 
obedience  to  his  rider's  spur — a  young  man  entered  the 
town  from  the  south  on  foot,  and  directed  his  steps  toward 
the  Raleigh  Tavern.  He  soon  reached  the  long  platform  in 
front  of  the  inn,  and  entered  the  ordinary. 

He  was  about  to  address  some  question  to  the  portly 
landlord,  when  turning  his  eyes  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  he  saw  seated  in  one  of  the  large  leathern  chairs,  a 
man  whose  face  seemed  to  excite  some  slumbering  thought 
in  his  mind,  for  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  and  seem 
ed  to  question  his  memory.  This  man,  who  was  reading  the 
last  issue  of  the  "  Virginia  Gazette "  with  some  interest, 
seemed  to  be  verging  on  thirty,  and  did  not  appear  to  be 
above  the  rank  of  what  then  were  called  yeomen.  His 
crisp  hair  was  curled  up  beneath  the  ears,  outwardly:  his 
mouth  had  in  it  a  world  of  character,  though  it  was  rather 
stern :  and  his  forehead,  very  broad  and  high,  was  tanned 
and  freckled.  He  was  clad  in  coarse  leather  breeches,  leg 
gings,  a  long  fustian  waistcoat,  and  coat  of  shaggy  cloth, 
without  a  particle  of  ornament,  then  almost  universal  in  the 
costume  of  gentlemen.  Over  his  shoulders  was  hung  loosely 
an  old  red  cloak,  and  his  slouch  hat  lay  by  him  on  the  rude 
pine  table. 

The  new  comer  took  in  all  these  details  with  a  single 
glance,  and  was  about  to  turn  away,  when,  raising  his  eyes, 
the  stranger  saw  him  looking  at  him. 

He  rose,  and  extended  a  hard,  brown  hand,  saying . 

"  Ah,  sir !  good -day,  I  believe  we  are  acquaintances, 
though  I  fear  you  have  forgotten  me." 

"  No  sir,"  said  the  new  comer,  "  I  recognized  you  at 
once." 

"  Because  you  found  me  an  agitator  of  ideas,  like  your 
self  on  our  last  meeting — which  I  believe  was  also  our  first. 
You  will  recollect  we  met  some  days  since  near  the  Capitol, 
when  Parson  Tag  took  politely  from  your  hand  the  *  Ga* 


102  TfiE   MAN   IN    THE   RED    CLOAK. 

zette,'  you  had  just  purchased  '  to  look  at  it,'  he  said : 
in  return  for  which  courtesy  you  ga~e  him  some  original 
ideas." 

"  I  did  not  obtrude  them,"  said  his  companion,  calmly 
"  he  questioned  me,  and  I  replied." 

"  Yes,  and  he  treated  your  crudities,  as  he  called  them, 
with  well-bred  contempt,  when  he  found  an  opportunity  to 
turn  his  back  on  you." 

"  I  was  not  offended,  sir.  He  had  a  perfect  right  to 
turn  to  those  gentlemen  who  bowed  to  him." 

"  Offended  !  I  should  say  that  would  be  a  loss  of  time 
with  a  parson,  not  to  mention  the  deadly  sin."  As  he  ut 
tered  these  words,  a  grim  curl  of  the  lip  betrayed  the  irony 
of  the  speaker. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  added,  "  you  gave  him,  as  I  said, 
some  original  views  on  the  subject  of  education  ;  and  he  did 
not  seem  to  relish  them  from  a  gentleman  clad,  like  your 
self,  in  drab  and  fustian." 

"  Well,  well,  sir,"  said  the  other,  "  perhaps  he  was 
right.  Men  of  my  class  are  not  generally  worth  listening 
to  on  matters  of  policy,  as  I  feel  I  am  not — he  is  a  culti 
vated  scholar." 

"  Bah  !  "  said  the  man  in  the  red  cloak,  good-humor- 
edly,  "  mind  is  mind,  sir,  and  it  matters  little  whether  the 
frame  be  covered  with  fustian  or  cut  velvet,  the  head  with 
a  gold-laced  hat  or  a  slouch,  like  mine  there ;  the  man, 
weak  or  strong,  remains." 

His  companion  felt  again  the  strange  influence  of  that 
voice,  at  once  careless  and  earnest,  laughing  and  grave ;  a 
singular  sympathy  seemed  to  have  already  sprung  up  be 
tween  these  two  men,  spite  of  their  acquaintance  of  yesterday. 

"  Now,"  said  the  stranger,  wrapping  his  old  cloak  about 
his  shoulders,  "  I  find  in  you  a  thinking  man — you  scarcely 
reflect  about  classes  and  dresses,  I  venture  to  say.  You 
have  walked  far  this  morning  ?  "  he  added. 

"  Yes,  that  is,  some  miles,"    replied  the  young  man 
somewhat  at  a  loss  to  understand  this  abrupt  question. 
"  You  are  dusty.'' 

"  Yes ;  the  sand  is  dry." 

"  Well,  did  you  think  of  that  dust  as  you  came  along  ?' 

"  I  believe  not,  my  thoughts  were  elsewhere." 


TfiE   JUAN   IN   THE    RED    CLOAK.  103 

"  Good,  that  is  what  I  mean.  The  squire  riding  in  his 
coach  has  his  hook,  or  takes  his  nap ;  you  can't  read  or 
nap  walking — the  consequence  ?  why  you  must  think." 

The  young  man  sat  down  to  rest ;  that  coarse  yet  musi 
cal  voice  drew  him  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  It  remains  to  tell  me  what  you  were  thinking  of  as 
you  came  along,  friend,"  added  the  stranger ;  "  come,  let 
us  talk  unreservedly.  Let  us  clash  our  minds  together,  and 
see  if  some  sparks  do  not  spring  forth.  What  were  you 
thinking  of?" 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  easily,"  said  his  companion ;  "  I 
was  reflecting  upon  the  system  of  education  we  spoke  of 
some  days  since." 

"  Oh,  I  recollect.     Your  free  school  ideas  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Broached  to  the  parson  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  They  were  striking,  I  confess,  but  wholly  out  of  the 
question." 

"Out  of  the  question?" 

"  Certainly  ;  is  it  possible  that  a  man  of  your  clearness 
of  head — let  us  speak  like  friends,  and  as  roughly  and  honestly 
as  we  can — is  it  possible  that  you  could  for  a  moment  be  in 
favor  of  such  a  doctrine  as  you  stated,  that  the  men  of  property 
should  put  their  hands  into  their  pockets  to  take  out  money 
for  people  they  know  nothing  of,  to  support  free  schools ; 
to  give  a  premium  for  idleness  ?  That,  I  think,  is  what  you 
said  they  were  bound  to  do,  the  other  day." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  looking  at  his  interlo 
cutor  with  some  surprise,  "  I  am  still  of  that  opinion." 

"It  is  Utopian  1" 

"  Utopian  ?  " 

"  Yes,  as  impossible  as  it  is  unjust,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  You  are  then  of  the  past,  instead  of  the  future,"  said 
his  companion,  with  noble  simplicity,  "  I  am  sorry  that  1 
misunderstood  you  so  completely." 

"  Of  the  future?  Oh,  yes,  I  understand  you.  Well,  I 
did  take  your  part,  as  was  natural :  "  the  speaker  pronounced 
this  word,  natural,  "  but  my  only  end  was  to  draw  out  tha 
parson.  Do  not  think  that,  on  that  account,  I  a  am  reformer, 
as  you  are,  sir." 


104  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK. 

"  Yes,  sir :  had  I  the  power  to  make  my  words  felt  1 
would  be  a  reformer." 

"  Take  care,  reform  is  often  merely  change :  and  change 
for  the  worse.  You  would  reform,  what  ?  " 

"  Nearly  every  thing ;  but  originate  more." 

"  Ah,  we  return  to  the  question  of  education." 

"  A  paramount  question." 

"  Your  darling  Utopia — above  all  the  rest." 

"  My  thought  always — yes." 

Nothing  was  ever  more  visionary,"  said  the  man  in  th« 
red  cloak,  "  excuse  my  plainness  :  but  I  do  not  even  see  any 
necessity  for  such  a  system,  leaving  the  possibility  of  found 
ing  it  entirely  out  of  the  question." 

"  No  necessity,  sir ! " 

"  There  is  very  little  popular  ignorance  in  Virginia — " 

"  Very  little !  "  interrupted  the  other  with  animated 
looks,  "  you  deceive  yourself !  It  is  immense  !  From  the 
indented  servant  who  drives  his  master's  coach,  to  the  yeo 
man  who  toils  with  the  sweat  running  from  his  brow,  all  is 
ignorance,  darkness  and  gloom.  The  children  grow  up  like 
wild  beasts,  the  animal  cultivated  in  place  of  the  soul — the 
man  is  but  the  larger  child—  as  ignorant  and  more  danger 
ous." 

"  Dangerous,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dangerous  1  dangerous  as  a  wild  animal  is  danger 
ous  to  approach  :  dangerous  as  a  marsh  is  to  tread  upon  ! 
This  mind,  which  holds  so  much  of  richness  and  God-given, 
inherent  capability  of  improvement,  is  a  mere  morass  ;  tread 
on  it,  it  will  ingulf  you  ! — a  morass  covered  with  poisonous 
flowers,  festering  with  decayed  vegetation,  lit  up  only  by 
dancing  fires — a  dance  of  death  !  But,  clear  this  morass  : — 
drain  it,  expose  it  to  light,  and  it  will  fecundate.  Light,  light 
is  what  it  wants,  what  it  cries  for  despairingly ;  and  no  answer 
is  vouchsafed  to  it." 

"  You  wish  government  to  answer  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  would  have  government  to  change  the  animal  in 
to  a  human  being,  the  wolf  into  a  civilized  man." 

"  Now  you  make  us  all  wolves,"  said  the  man  in  the  red 
cloak,  "  how  are  men  animals,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  who  that  has  opened  the  *  ecords  of  the  world,  for 
in  instai  t  even,  could  controvert  it  *  The  normal  condition 


THE  HAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK.  105 

is  animal — the  spirit  is  there,  God  be  thanked  !  but  it  flick 
ers,  glimmers,  burns  faintly  in  the  poisonous  miasma.  Still 
environed  by  a  thousand  foes  it  lives  on.  Encourage  it  nev 
er  so  little  and  it  flames  aloft  in  clear  heavenly  radiance ! 
what  a  noble  field  for  those  who  love  the  race,  and  have  the 
power  to  benefit  these  souls  steeped  in  gloom.  For  this 
poor  feeble  existence  is  a  soul — it  will  never  die  ! — the  re 
sponsibility  of  leaving  that  soul  to  struggle  alone  and  unaid 
ed  against  its  foes  seems  to  me  dreadful,  sir !  It  seems  to 
me  that  God  will  some  day  ask  of  those  men  who  had  the 
power  and  did  not  use  it,  what  he  asked  of  Cain  :  'Where  is 
thy  brother  ?  '  If  they  have  not  struck  the  blow  themselves, 
they  have  allowed  the  better  part  of  men  to  be  overcome 
within  them,  and  this  spiritual  murder  will  lie  at  their  doors. 
That  better  part  moans  and  mutters  its  inarticulate  despair, 
the  very  life-blood  arrested  in  the  veins  by  this  nightmare  of 
ignorance  and  darkness,  which,  squatting  upon  its  breast, 
makes  it  writhe  and  groan  and  toss,  in  the  deep  darkness. 
The  more  I  reflect  upon  this  thing,  the  more  dreadful  does  it 
seem  to  me.  There  are  thousands  who  have  never  known 
the  means  of  salvation — pagans  in  this  Virginia  of  to-day. 
Christ  has  wept  tears  of  blood  for  them  in  vain  :  his  hands 
were  not  pierced  for  them,  they  never  heard  of  him — mere 
heathen  men — there  within  a  stone's  throw  of  us.  Is  it  not 
dreadful  ?  " 

The  thinker  carried  away  by  his  excitement,  had  risen 
from  his  seat,  and  now  stood  erect  before  the  man  in  the  red 
cloak,  who  seemed  to  regard  him  with  that  philosophic  in 
terest  which  a  naturalist  takes  in  a  new  species  of  animal. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  "  there  is  much  truth  in  your 
views,  but  they  do  not  convince  me  Governments,  my 
friend,  are  rather  selfish,  it  seems  to  me  ;  and  though  we 
common  people  here  discussing  them,  pride  ourselves  upon 
our  fine  and  noble  views,  I  fancy  we  should  act  much  after 
the  same  fashion  were  we  in  power.  Good  policy  would  keep 
us  from  testing  these  elevated  ideas. 

"  No,  never !  "  said  his  companion ;  "  I  cannot  agree 
with  you.  Rather  is  it  a  most  false  and  narrow  policy  to 
trample  thus  on  the  low." 

"  Why,  pray  ?  "  said  the  stranger,  who  seemed  to  hav« 
no  end  beyond  making  the  other  talk. 


106  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK. 

"  Because  ignorance  is  the  most  fatal  of  all  curses  to 
rulers.  The  ignorant  soul  is  the  prey  of  demagogues  and 
false  leaders — it  is  a  sea  which  any  wind  will  la.sh  into  foam. 
The  little  history  which  I  have  read  has  been  read  in  vain, 
if  it  has  not  shown  me  that  an  ignorant  and  uncultivated 
people  are  the  most  dangerous  of  all.  You  see  the  great 
mass  every  day,  and  do  not  look  at  it  from  your  elevation — 
you  are  ruler !  Well,  sir,  some  day,  that  great  ocean  will 
be  agitated  by  some  popular  grievance,  it  will  rise  in  its 
might — as  strong  as  it  is  ignorant — and,  with  its  world  of 
fury,  it  will  burst  your  vain  dykes,  and  bury  you  and  your 
government  for  ever." 

The  stranger  looked  at  the  speaker  with  the  same  curious 
expression. 

"  You  have  thought  much  upon  this  subject,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  "  often  and  deeply.  I  must  have 
wearied  you,  and  I  shall  now  permit  you  to  return  to  your 
paper,  sir.  Free  schools — the  form  in  which  I  would  have 
this  vast  evil  attacked — are  not,  to  all,  the  absorbing  subject 
of  thought  which  they  are  to  myself." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  you  have  given  me  thoughts.  I  have  listened 
with  attention,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  I  do  not  live  in  Wil- 
liamsburg,  and  am  thankful  for  the  time  and  society  you 
give  me.  I  am  one  of  the  people  myself,  and,  though  I 
have  a  smattering  of  Latin,  and  some  reading,  feel,  in  my 
own  person,  the  truth  of  many  of  your  remarks." 

"  I  did  not  mean,  believe  me — " 

"  Come,  come,  don't  let  us  interchange  any  compliments," 
said  the  stranger,  with  a  laugh ;  "  we  understand  each 
other — there  is  something  like  sympathy  I  etwceii  us." 

"Yes,  from  our  first  meeting  I  have  felt  it." 

"  You  are  more  of  a  student  than  myself,  doubtless,' 
said  the  stranger ;  "  I  recognize  in  you  the  patient  worker. 
For  myself,  I  am  very  indolent,  and  wrnld  rather  play  the 
violin,  or  hunt,  or  fish,  than  study. '' 

"  But  you  think— reflect." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  "  much. 

And  his  wandering,  careless  eye  became  steadfast,  and 
full  of  steady  strength.  There  was  wond  rful  clearness  in  it, 
and  that  proud  and  lofty  glance  peculiar  to  men  born  to 
lead  and  rule,  did  not  escape  the  attention  of  his  companion. 


BEATRICE    AND    HER    SECOND   VISITOR.  107 

It  was  the  eye  of  the  eagle  looking  down  from  the  clouds 
apon  men  and  things,  the  past  and  present ;  old  things  and 
new;  the  glance  of  fire,  which,  rejecting  petty  details,  and 
piercing  the  heaviest  mist,  caught  the  central  idea,  the  living 
fact,  then  turned  to  renew  itself  at  the  great  source  of  light. 
The  thinker  felt  that  the  stranger  was  greater  than  he 
seemed,  greater  than  he  even  knew  himself.  He  felt  that 
this  ungainly  man,  clad  so  rudely,  and  speaking  with  such 
clownish  accent,  was  a  born  leader  of  men — a  thinker  of 
new  thoughts. 

"  Yes,"  the  stranger  added,  "  I  reflect  much,  and  my 
conclusions  would,  perhaps,  astound  the  parsons  more  than 
your  own  idftas  have  done,  sir.  At  a  more  opportune  mo 
ment,  I  hope  to  interchange  thoughts  with  you  upon  some 
of  the  vital  questions  which  affect  this  age  and  country  now. 
I  recognize  in  you  a  spirit  which  sympathizes  with  my  own 
— a  nature  like  my  own — for  I  am  a  man  of  the  people. 
You  shall  give  me  your  ideas — I  will  give  you  my  own. 
Who  knows  that  from  this  collision  of  thought  fire  may  not 
dart.  You  do  not  know  me  by  name  or  condition,  sir ;  I 
know  as  little  of  yourself :  still,  mind  speaks  to  mind,  and 
recognizes  its  co-worker.  And  if,  in  future,  occasions  shall 
arise,  whic1  require  bold  hearts  and  hands,  I  shall  come  to 
you,  and  claim  your  aid,  without  fear  of  refusal,  as  without 
dread  of  the  result." 

With  which  words  the  man  in  the  red  cloak  put  on  his 
old  slouch  hat,  made  an  awkward  bow,  and  with  a  gait,  which 
was  half  stride,  half  shamble,  went  out  of  the  Raleigh,  and 
disappeared.  Charles  Waters  stood,  for  some  moments, 
looking  thoughtfully  after  him  :  then,  arousing  himself,  turn 
ed  to  the  landlord,  and  asked  for  Miss  Hallam.  The  land 
lord  pointed  through  the  door :  the  young  girl  was  just  going 
up  stairs,  having  returned  from  rehearsal,  and  her  visitor  fol 
lowed  her. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

BEATRICE  AND  HER  SECOND  VI8ITOB. 

HE  knocked  at  the  door  which  he  saw  close  behind  her,  and, 
being  bid  to  come  in,  opened  it  and  entered.  The  youu 


108  BEATRICE   AND    HER    SECOND  VISITOR. 

was  standing  in  front  of  the  window,  which  was  open,  and 
did  not  seem  to  be  in  a  very  amiable  mood.  Her  brow  was 
knit,  and  her  firmly  closed  lips  appeared  to  indicate  the  ex 
pectation  on  the  part  of  their  mistress,  of  an  unwelcome 
visitor. 

No  sooner  had  she  caught  sight  of  the  young  man,  how 
ever,  than  this  expression  of  annoyance  and  ill-humor  van 
ished  like  magic :  and,  running  forward,  with  the  abandon  and 
fresh  grace  of  a  child,  she  held  out  her  hands,  saying : 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  !  " 

Her  beautiful  face  was,  at  that  moment,  lit  up  with  such 
joy,  the  eyes  were  so  bright  and  happy  looking,  the  parted 
lips  radiant  with  a  smile  of  such  tenderness  and  child-like 
simplicity,  that  her  companion  stood,  for  a  full  minute,  look 
ing  at  her  in  silent  surprise.  She  had  taken  his  hand,  and 
pressed  it  so  warmly  that,  spite  of  himself,  spite  of  the  pre 
occupation,  caused  by  the  interview  which  he  had  just  pass 
ed,  he  felt  his  heart  throb  with  a  new  and  delightful  emotion. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Beatrice,  "  this  is  very  kind  to  come  and  see 
us :  have  I  kept  you  waiting  ?  " 

"  No,  madam,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  very  happy  to  find 
you  so  well.  You  are  right  in  supposing  that  my  visit  was 
to  you  and  your  father.  We  were  all  desirous  of  knowing 
whether  you  had  suffered  any  bad  effects  from  your  accident." 

"  I  am  very  well,  sir,  I  believe,"  replied  Beatrice,  be 
coming  more  calm,  "  and  I  only  have  a  slight  cough  which 
will  go  off,  I  am  sure  :  sit  down,  sir." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  he  only  called  to 
usk  the  simple  question  to  which  she  had  just  replied :  but. 
in  spite  of  himself,  he  was  swayed  by  the  bright,  tender 
glance  of  the  young  girl,  and  sat  down. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  interrupt  you,"  he  said,  "you  are  busy." 

"  Oh  no,  sir  :  I  have  just  returned  from — from  rehear 
sal.  You  know  I  am  an  actress,  sir,"  she  added,  with  t 
•light  blush ;  but,  at  once  calling  her  pride  to  her  assistance 
this  blush  disappeared,  and  she  said  calmly,  "  I  have  to  play 
to-night." 

He  saw  the  blush,  and  perfectly  well  understood  it. 

"  You  said,  '  I  am  an  actress,'  with  some  hesitation,"  he 
teplied.  "  I  do  not  find  in  that  fact  any  thing  that  you 
should  be  ashamed  of.  It  is  an  honest  and  worthy  employ- 


BEATRICE   AND    HER    SECOND    VISITOR.  109 

aient,  when  it  is  pursued  worthily,  as  you  pursue  it,  Miss 
Hallam." 

»  "  All  do  not  think  so,  sir." 

"  At  least,  I  do ;  and  do  not  expect  to  find  in  me  the 
mode  of  thinking  which  characterizes  the  wealthier  classes  of 
the  day.  Nothing  is  derogatory  which  is  undertaken  in  a 
pure  and  elevated  spirit — which  is  honest.  It  would  take 
much  to  persuade  me  that  the  '  player,'  to  use  the  phrase  of 
Shakspeare,  who  labors  honestly  and  nobly  in  his  vocation, 
should  not  rank  above  the  idle  gentleman,  who  consumes 
merely,  without  producing  any  thing.  I  do  not  say  this  in 
a  fault-finding  or  bitter  spirit :  it  seems  simply  true  to  me ; 
and  thus  I  cannot  understand  why  you  should  hesitate  to 
avow  your  profession." 

"  I  do  not,  sir,"  said  Beatrice  softly ;  "  but  spite  of  my 
self,  I  am  affected  by  the  popular  opinion  of  my  class,  and 
find  all  my  pride  necessary  to  combat  it.  Oh  yes,  sir  1  it  is 
unjust — indeed  it  is  !  "  added  the  young  girl,  earnestly ; 
"  and  though  I  do  not  like  acting,  and  dread  the  approach 
of  every  night,  I  cannot  think  the  gentlemen  are  right  in  de 
spising  us !  " 

"  I  am  sure  they  do  not  think  so  of  you,"  he  said;  "and 
though  Mr.  Effingham  has  behaved  toward  you  in  a  man 
ner  most  unworthy  of  an  honorable  man,  I  cannot  think  he 
meant  a  deliberate  insult  to  a  young  girl.  That  were  too 
base,"  he  added,  with  the  latent  flash  of  the  eye  which  char 
acterized  him. 

"  Ah,  sir  1  "  said  Beatrice,  with  the  same  cloud  upon  her 
face,  which  had  warned  the  manager  upon  the  river,  "  do 
not  let  us  speak  of  Mr.  Effingham — he  does  not  treat  me  as 
a  gentleman  should  treat  all  persons,  however  much  beneath 
him.  I  feel  that  I  am  not  beneath  him,  and  I  can  forget  the 
suffering  he  causes  me.  Come  !  I  won't  talk  of  him  any 
more.  I  see  your  face  becoming  gloomy,  and  your  anger 
rising.  Do  let  us  leave  all  this,  and  not  talk  about  it  any 
more." 

"  Well,  madam,  you  teach  me  a  lofty  lesson.  If  I  am 
indignant,  I  had  the  right  to  be ;  but  there  is  something 
greater  than  anger,  that  is  forgiveness.  Let  this  young 
man,  then,  be  no  longer  the  subject  of  our  thoughts ;  he  is 
beneath  you  far  enough — I  say  it  with  no  scofling,  much  leu 
to  flatter — far  enough  for  you  to  pardon  him." 


110  BEATRICE    AND    HER    SECOND    VISITOR. 

The  face  of  the  young  girl  flushed  with  feeling,  and  hd 
eyes  filled. 

"  Oh  !  how  different  from  the  other,"  she  murmured, 
turning  away ;  "  these  words  are  a  balm  to  me  :  they  make 
me  happy,  though  I  do  not  deserve  his  opinion." 

And  looking  at  him  with  happy  eyes,  bathed  in  theii 
tender  mist,  she  said  softly : 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,  sir ;  you  must  have  a  noble 
nature  to  speak  thus  to  a  poor  young  girl  like  myself." 

Never  had  he  seen  a  more  winning  countenance — so  much 
purity  and  simple  truth  in  human  eyes.  He  began  to  look 
at  her  more  closely,  surveying  in  tuin  the  noble  brow,  the  soft, 
melting  eyes,  the  tender,  childlike  mouth,  the  maidenly  at 
titude,  so  full  of  modesty  and  grace.  She  had  just  called 
herself  a  poor  girl,  and  he  found  himself  looking  upon  her 
as  a  princess. 

"  I  am  a  poor  man,  too,"  he  said,  "  much  poorer  than 
yourself.  You  have  many  things  which  I  have  not.  How 
grateful  must  the  applause  your  genius  excites  sound  to 
yon  1  I  have  no  such  pleasure,"  he  said  with  a  smile  at  hii 
own  sophistry. 

"  Ah !  but  you  have  liberty." 

"  Have  not  you  ?  " 

"  No — that  is,  I  mean  not  your  liberty." 

"  What  is  mine  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Beatrice ;  "  you  have  the  forest,  the  river, 
and  the  clouds.  Don't  smile  at  me,  sir ;  when  I  think  of 
them,  I  am  a  child  again,  and  forget  all  my  worry  and  every 
thing." 

"  And  you  love  the  woods  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dearly !  " 

"  And  the  water." 

"  More  still" 

"  Strange  that  your  career  has  not  made  these  simple 
things  distasteful,"  he  said,  regarding  her  with  more  and 
more  attention. 

"  Never  could  any  thing  make  me  dislike  them,"  said 
Beatrice,  with  a  lovely  rose-color  in  her  beautiful  cheek 
"  I  must  have  been  born  in  the  country — I  never  heard  from 
father,  and  I  only  recollect  London — for  it  makes  me  happy 
to  get  away  among  the  leaves  and  flowers.  I  like  autumn 


BEATRICE   AND   HER    SECOND   VISITOR.  1  1 1 

especially,  and,  I  believe,  I  could  listen  to  the  woods  sighing 
in  the  wind  for  whole  days.  I  have  often  thought  the  great 
trees  were  men  with  grand  souls,  sheltering  all  that  come 
beneath  them,  and  raising  their  heads  to  heaven  without 
fearing  the  lightning  or  storms !  " 

He  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  the  animated  face. 

"  And  then  on  the  river,"  added  Beatrice,  with  a  happy 
light  in  her  eyes,  "on  the  water  I  feel  freer  than  ever.  I 
feel  like  dancing  sometimes,  aud  father  was  laughing  at  in 
for  calling  after  the  waterfowl  the  other  day — when  you 
saved  me,  you  know,"  she  said,  with  a  look  which  went  to  his 
heart.  He  made  a  movement  with  his  hand. 

"  I  love  the  water,"  she  said,  "  and  the  clouds  and  waves, 
and  all — the  sunlight  makes  me  deeply  joyful.  I  could 
never  have  felt  it  again,"  she  added  in  a  subdued  voice.  "  but 
for  you — and  who  knows — who  knows — " 

The  impulsive  young  girl  passing,  as  was  her  wont,  from 
excitement  to  quiet,  from  joy  to  melancholy,  paused,  hanging 
down  her  head. 

"  Who  knows — you  would  say  ?  "  he  asked,  taking  the 
little  hand  which  hung  at  her  side,  with  scarcely  a  conscious 
ness  of  doing  so. 

"  I  am  not  fit  to  die,"  said  Beatrice,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  turning  away.  There  was  a  silence  more  eloquent 
than  any  words.  Her  hand  remained  in  his,  and  neither 
spoke,  but  once  their  glances  met,  and  then  were  withdrawn. 

"  God  alone  knows  who  is  prepared  for  that  voyage  to 
eternity,"  her  companion  said  at  length,  in  a  grave,  serious 
voice,  releasing  her  hand  as  he  spoke  ;  "  we  are  mere  instru 
ments — as  I  was — in  his  hand  :  mere  wood  and  metal,  which 
cannot  see  or  know  any  thing — which  are  wielded  by  the 
right  hand  of  the  Deity.  But  I  am  trespassing  on  your 
time,  Miss  Hallam,  and  must  go." 

"  Oh  no,  sir — no." 

"  Do  not  rate  my  service  to  you  too  highly,"  he  said, 
taking  no  notice  of  this;  interruption,  and  rising;  "  if  you  sus 
tain  no  inconvenience,  I  need  not  say  I  shall  be  most  happy 
— as  I  am  happy  to  have  been  near  you  when  you  fell ;  any 
debt  you  owed  me  has  been  more  than  repaid  by  the  pleasure 
I  have  felt  in  this  friendly  conversation,  and  now  I  must  go 
I  fear  that  I  have  trespassed  too  much  upon  your  time." 

*'  Oh  no — please  sit  down  :  I  am  not  busy  "  said  Bea- 


112  BEATRICE   AND    HER    SECOND    VISITOR. 

trice,  with  all  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  "  you  know  I  hav« 
been  to  rehearsal." 

"  You  play  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  :  but  will  you  do  me  a  great  favor  ?  " 

"  Is  it  very  great  ?  "  he  said,  gazing  with  a  soft  smile 
upon  the  tender  face.  Beatrice  caught  the  expression,  and 
her  own  countenance  became  so  radiant  and  winning,  so  full 
of  happiness  and  tender  feeling,  that  he  felt  his  breast  heave . 
'  What  is  the  favor  ?  "  he  added. 

"  To  promise  me  not  to  come,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  To  see  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  At  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  To-night — yes,  sir :  I  would  rather  you  would  not 
;ome,  to-night  or  ever." 

"  Tell  me  why  :  we  are  friends,  are  we  not — enough  for 
that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  please  me  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  by  saying 
that,"  said  Beatrice ;  "  indeed  I  wish  you  to  have  no  worse 
one  than  myself.  But  I  cannot  tell  you  why  I  do  not  wish 
to  see  you  ever  at  the  theatre.  I  hope  you  will  not  come  to 
see  me." 

"  Well,  I  will  not,"  he  said  with  a  softness  which  was 
uncommon  with  him,  "  at  least  to-night,  but  I  may  come  and 
see  you  here  again  ?  " 

u  Oh,  will  you?" 

"  Indeed — if  you  will  permit  me." 

"  Oh,  always — I  so  love  to  hear  you  talk." 

Beatrice  seemed  to  be  carried  away  by  her  feelings,  and 
afterwards  blamed  herself  severely  for  acting  in  so  childlike 
a  manner.  Her  companion  said,  as  he  exchanged  a  pressure 
of  the  hand  at  parting, 

"  I  will  certainly  come  as  often  as  I  can — you  have  no 
better  friend  than  myself,  believe  me." 

And  with  these  simple  and  sincere  words,  he  took  his 
departure,  thinking  of  the  bright,  fresh  face,  which  seemed 
to  have  risen  for  the  first  time,  like  a  harvest  moon,  upon 
his  sight.  As  for  Beatrice,  she  sat  still  for  half  an  hour, 
with  her  head  bent  down,  pensively,  and  her  eyes  veiled  with 
their  long  lashes.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  raised  her 
face,  and  said,  with  deep  tenderness,  and  eyes  that  swam  io 
happy  tears,  "  He  is  so  good  and  noble  !  " 


THE  EXPLOSION:  SCENE,  EFFINGHAM  HALL.          ill 
CHAPTER    XX. 

THE  EXPLOSION :  SCENE,  EFFINGHAM  HALL. 

1  WHEN  an  individual  of  violent  temperament  adopts  a  man 
ner  of  ease  and  unconcern,  sedulously  avoiding  every  thing 
calculated  to  arouse  his  latent  passion,  the  effect,  after  a 
series  of  years,  is  undoubtedly  beneficial.  The  character 
takes  the  color  of  its  nutriment  in  a  great  degree ;  and  if  it 
is  nourished  upon  strong  emotions,  and  critical  sensations, 
will  become  more  and  more  violent : — if  upon  quiet  plea 
sures,  and  moderate  delights,  the  result  will  be  just  the  re 
verse.  Still,  there  is  this  to  be  observed  in  such  cases.  The 
mind  of  man  is  not  unlike  a  river ; — it  may  be  directed  into 
a  new  channel,  but  scarcely  arrested  wholly  in  its  course. 
Build  a  dam  of  convention  across  it — bid  it  curb  its  waves, 
arrest  its  current,  and  it  will  sweep  all  before  it.  The  higher 
you  build  the  obstruction,  the  more  violent  the  rush  of  the 
waters,  when  once  they  have  broken  loose.  This  was  the  re 
sult  with  my  respected  ancestor,  Mr.  Champ  Effingham. 
True,  he  declared  often  and  believed,  that  he  needed  strong 
emotion — novelty — passion,  for  his  existence ;  but  this  was 
a  mistake.  His  passions  were  naturally  strong  enough,  and 
emotion  was  dangerous  to  himself  and  others.  The  quiet 
life  of  his  native  country  had  allowed  these  passions  to  sleep 
for  a  long  time,  and  he  fancied  that  he  had  none.  He  was, 
as  I  have  already  declared,  very  greatly  mistaken. 

"  The  first  view  of  young  Miss  Hallam  had  stirred  up  a 
hurly-burly  in  his  breast ;  not  because  she  was  so  much 
more  beautiful  than  Miss  Clare  Lee,  for  whom,  as  the  reader 
of  these  pages  has  perceived,  my  respected  ancestor  had 
begun  to  have  something  more  than  a  friendly  regard : — 
not  that  she  was  one  of  those  fiery  phenomena,  who,  like 
Cleopatra  or  Aspasia,  dazzle  the  eyes,  and  set  the  brain  and 
heart  on  fire.  The  effect  produced  upon  Mr.  Effingham  by 
the  young  woman  was  attributable  to  the  novelty  and 
freshness  of  her  character,  and  the  state  of  his  own  mind, 
ripe  for  some  great  passion,  and  dissatisfied  with  the  tran 
quil  affection  of  the  little  beauty  at  Riverhead.  Miss  Hal- 
lam's  reception  of  his  advances  had  blown  the  vague  and 


114         THE  EXPLOSION:  SCENE,  EFFINGHAM  HALL. 

dubious  spark  into  a  blaze — her  favorable  smiles  would  in 
all  probability  have  extinguished  it  at  once :  and  no  one 
who  has  read  the  human  heart  attentively,  more  especially 
that  strange  chapter  dedicated  to  love,  will  fail  to  under 
stand  this  simple  fact.  Love,  I  am  convinced,  is  a  mere 
thing  of  the  imagination  at  first :  the  heart  seeks  something 
new  and  strange — something  to  ponder  upon  and  treasure 
up,  and  spend  its  passionate  yearnings  upon  :  tranquil,  quiet, 
unostentatious  affection  succeeds,  and  this  is  love  indeed,  but 
the  storrn  precedes  the  calm. 

"  These  few  words  will  explain  what  I  mean  when  I  add 
that  Mr.  Effingham  was  not,  properly  speaking,  in  love  with 
Miss  Hallam.  He  experienced  for  her  a  violent,  passionate 
emotion,  which  had  ripened  in  a  few  days  to  full  size  and 
vigor,  and  though  many  persons  may  say — if,  indeed  many 
read  these  pages — that  his  love  was  '  love  at  first  sight,' 
and  genuine,  still  I  must  be  permitted  to  doubt  it;  and  I 
hope  to  show  conclusively,  before  ending  this  narrative,  that 
those  views  I  have  stated  are  correct.  I  am  convinced  that 
it  was  a  sort  of  infatuation,  like  that  of  the  drunkard  for  the 
draught  of  fire  :  if  he  comes  near  it,  he  seizes  and  swallows 
it.  Miss  Hallam  declined  being  swallowed  ;  if  I  may  be 
permitted  to  make  a  very  poor  witticism ;  she  was  offended, 
and  I  think  very  justly,  at  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Effing- 
liam  uniformly  addressed  her,  and  she  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  conceal  her  feelings.  She  showed  him  plainly 
that  she  did  not  desire  him  to  visit  her,  and  the  conse 
quence  was  a  vast  increase  of  Mr.  Effingham's  passion.  We 
have  seen  how  inconsistently  this  violent  emotion  led  him  to 
speak  and  behave : — now  praising,  then  scoffing  at  the  object 
of  his  passion :  at  one  time  almost  cursing  her,  as  he  said, 
then  blessing  her,  and  declaring  that  she  was  a  noble,  high- 
souled  girl.  The  last  interview  he  had  with  Miss  Hallam, 
at  which  the  reader  has  been  present,  was  the  capstone  to  all 
these  passionate  interviews ;  and  the  state  of  Mr.  Effingham's 
mind  may  very  correctly  be  inferred  from  his  mingled  mock 
ery  and  earnestness,  sincerity  and  sarcasm  in  Miss  Hallam's 
presence.  After  leaving  her  he  left  Williamsburg — just 
when  Mr.  Waters  entered  it  as  we  know — and  launched  him 
self,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  toward  the  Hall,  overwhelmed 
with  rage  and  despair." 


THE   EXPLOSION  :    SCENE,   EFUNGHAM   HALL.  .  15 

Thus  far  the  writer  of  the  MS.,  to  whom  we  shall  recur 
whenever  his  narrative  commentary  on  the  events  of  this 
narrative  elucidates  the  posture  of  affairs,  or  the  emotions 
of  the  various  personages. 

Mr.  Champ  Effingham  soon  reached  Effingham  Hall, 
and,  throwing  his  bridle  loose,  hurried  to  his  room.  He  did 
not  make  his  appearance  again  that  day,  sending  word  in 
reply  to  the  various  messages  dispatched  to  him,  that  he 
was  unwell,  and  wished  to  be  left  in  quiet.  The  result  of 
two  replies  of  this  description  to  Miss  Alethea's  messenger, 
was  the  desired  quiet.  The  young  gentleman  made  his  ap 
pearance  on  the  next  morning,  at  the  breakfast-table,  a'fter  the 
squire's  departure  to  ride  over  his  farm,  looking  very  much 
out  of  sorts.  The  sallow  rings  beneath  his  eyes  were  darker 
than  ever,  and  he  seemed  to  have  spent  a  bad  night,  if  in 
deed  he  had  slept  at  all  before  morning.  Miss  Alethea  de 
clared  her  opinion,  that  he  had  not  slumbered  :  and  asked 
an  explanation  of  the  stamping  and  striding  over  her  head 
— the  noise  of  flying  chairs,  and  rattling  swords,  hurled  ap 
parently  for  amusement  on  the  floor.  She  worded  these 
questions  in  such  a  manner,  that  the  impression  left  upon  all 
ininds,  was  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Champ  Effingham  was  a 
naughty  boy,  who  had  been  behaving  badly,  and  deserved  a 
scolding. 

The  reader  will  no  doubt  imagine,  without  any  explana 
tion  upon  our  part,  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Effingham  re 
ceived  these  observations.  He  looked  at  Miss  Alethea,  as  a 
mastiff  does  at  a  lapdog  who  is  worrying  him,  and  went  on 
with  his  breakfast.  Miss  Alethea  was  a  lady  of  excellent 
sense,  and  did  not  meddle  with  him  any  more  during  the 
whole  day.  Mr.  Effingham  spent  the  day  in  gloomy  thought 
— varying  this  monotonous  amusement,  by  hurling  from  his 
path  every  thing  which  stood  in  his  way.  Orange,  Miss 
Alethea's  lapdog,  chanced  to  obstruct  his  steps,  as  he  was 
passing  through  the  hall,  and  this  unfortunate  scion  of  a 
royal  race,  found  himself  kicked  twenty  feet  across  the  pas 
sage,  into  the  embraces  of  an  astonished  tortoise-shell  cat, 
his  inveterate  enemy.  Orange  was  so  completely  astounded, 
and  overawed  by  this  summary  treatment  on  the  enemy's 
part,  that  he  did  not  utter  so  much  as  a  single  whine.  He 
was  cowed. 


16     T&E  EXPLOSION:  SCENE,  EFFINGHAM  HALL. 

Mr.  Effingham  spent  several  days  in  this  manner,  scarcely 
eating  any  thing,  but  sitting  long  after  dinner,  drinking 
claret.  The  squire  could  extract  nothing  from  him;  and 
soon  little  Kate,  his  favorite,  was  repulsed,  to  her  sorrow 
and  mortification.  The  child  prayed  earnestly  that  night 
for  cousin  Champ,  and  could  not  get  her  geography  the 
next  day  for  sorrowing  about  him.  As  for  Master  Will, 
that  young  gentleman  preserved  a  rigid  silence,  and  a  re 
spectful  distance  from  the  irate  Achilles,  whose  sombre  mood 
he  regarded  with  astonishment  and  awe.  He  saw  with  dumb 
astonishment  that  Mr.  Effingham's  hair  had  remained  un- 
powdered  for  a  whole  week,  and  that  his  ruffle  was  torn  re 
gularly  every  evening. 

One  morning,  Mr.  Effingham  was  observed  to  sit  with 
his  head  bent  down  for  more  than  an  hour,  in  gloomy 
thought ;  at  the  end  of  that  time,  he  rose  and  ordered  his 
horse.  Mounting,  he  directed  his  way,  with  a  strange  ex 
pression  on  his  lips,  toward  Riverhead.  At  the  stream, 
which  ran  across  the  road,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house, 
his  new  cocked-hat,  with  its  magnificent  feather,  blew  off  into 
the  water,  and  was  all  muddied  and  draggled  ;  and  when, 
after  picking  it  up,  he  again  mounted,  he  found  that  his 
horse  had  by  some  means  become  suddenly  lame. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "  fate  is  against  my  seeing 
her.  I  will  not  go."  And  returning  to  the  Hall,  he  shut 
himself  up  in  his  room,  and  did  not  issue  forth  again  until 
evening.  It  was  the  seventh  day  after  the  interview  with 
Beatrice  Hallam ;  but  it  brought  him  no  rest  from  hi» 
harassing  and  gloomy  thoughts.  He  was  growing  reckless  ; 
burnt  up  by  his  complicated  emotions,  he  began  to  regard 
things  in  a  mysterious  and  fateful  light.  Was  this  young 
woman  to  be  his  curse,  appointed  by  Heaven  to  ruin  him 
here  in  this  world,  for  some  dreadful  sin  he  had  committed  ? 
He  felt  no  penitence,  shrank  not,  but  with  the  same  mock 
ing,  reckless  smile,  entered  the  supper-room,  where  Misa 
Alethea  was  preparing  chocolate.  He  sat  down  in  moody 
silence,  but  was  not  long  left  to  himself. 

"Champ!"  said  Miss  Alethea,  as  she  finished  the  ar 
rangement  of  the  table  to  her  satisfaction,  "  you  really  muit 
have  something  on  your  mind." 

No  reply. 


THE  EXPLOSION:  scEfrE,  EFFINGKAM  HALL.          lit 

"  What  has  made  you  so  moody  for  several  days  ?  I 
never  saw  you  more  disagreeable." 

The  same  silence. 

"  Have  you  addressed  Clare  Lee  and  been  discarded  ?  " 

Mr.  Effingham's  face  flushed,  and  he  turned  with  an 
irritated  look  toward  Miss  Alethea,  which  that  lady  under 
stood  perfectly. 

"  Oh,  well,  sir  ! "  she  said.  "  If  you  are  going  to  eat 
me,  I  will  not  presume  to  speak.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  there  was  so  insulting  in  my  question  ? "  she  added, 
oblivious  of  her  intention  not  to  address  the  young  man  fur 
ther,  on  any  consideration. 

"  It  is  no  insult,"  said  Mr.  Effingbam,  gloomily,  "  and 
I  have  not  seen  Miss  Clare  Lee  for  a  moment  since  the  play, 
more  than  a  week  ago.  But  I  do  not  desire  to  have  my 
affairs  meddled  with." 

"  Indeed  !  "  replied  Miss  Alethea,  indignant  at  the  tone 
Df  the  young  man,  "  perhaps  they  are  better  not  meddled 
with,  they  may  not  bear  examination.  I  believe  that  that 
young  play-girl  has  something  to  do  with  the  matter  ;  and 
Clare  told  me  the  other  day,  that  some  gentleman  had  told 
her  that  you  had  met  him  in  a  distracted  state  of  mind, 
galloping  from  town.  You  had  better  take  care,  they  are 
already  talking  about  you." 

Mr.  Effingham's  rage  on  hearing  this  intelligence,  may 
be  better  conceived  than  described.  Clare  Lee  to  know  of 
his  infatuation  !  to  hear  of  his  acquaintance  with  Beatrice 
Hallam  !  to  be  told  of  his  violent,  infatuated  conduct !  And 
.hat  impudent  fellow  who  had  dared  to  meddle  with  his 
affairs  !  Mr.  Effingham  ground  his  teeth,  and  grasped  his 
sword-hilt  with  ominous  meaning.  This,  then,  was  what  he 
was  coming  to  be ;  the  gossip  of  the  country  side.  Clare 
Lee,  even,  was  one  of  the  laughers,  and  pitied  him,  no  doubt, 
if  she  did  not  despise  him.  Pity  or  contempt !  Mr.  Effing 
ham's  lip  curled,  and  his  brow  contracted  ;  then  his  face 
resumed  its  gloomy  look  again,  and  he  said :  "  Woe  to  those 
who  busy  themselves  with  me.  Who  spoke  of  me  to  Misa 
Clare  Lee  ?  Come,  tell  me,  madam." 

Miss  Alethea,  though  somewhat  awed  by  his  manner,  re 
plied,  that  she  did  not  consider  herself  called  upon  to  crosa- 
exaorine  Clare.  The  fact  was  bad  eneugh. 


I  1 8  THE   EXPLOSION  :    SCENE,    EFFING&AM   HALL. 

"  What  fact  ?"  Mr.  Effingham  said,  rudely. 

"  That  you,  my  brother,  sir,"  replied  Miss  Alethea,  bri 
dling  up,  "  should  make  yourself  the  talk  of  every  one  : — in 
\ove  with  a  common  actress  !  " 

"  Madam  1 "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a  flash  of  the  eye 

"  You  may  scowl  upon  me  as  much  as  you  choose,  sir," 
said  Miss  Alethea,  now  thoroughly  aroused,  "  but  I  say  it  is 
disgraceful." 

Mr.  Effingham  bit  his  lip  until  it  bled. 

"  Yes,  disgraceful !  "  continued  Miss  Alethea,  "  for  you 
to  be  making  yourself  ridiculous — and  not  only  yourself,  but 
me  and  all — by  your  infatuation  for  this  woman,  who  would 
not  be  permitted  to  enter  a  respectable  house.  Yes,  sir  ! 
you  imagine  because  you  have  been  to  Europe,  that  you  are 
at  liberty  to  do  just  as  you  choose,  and  to  act  without  refer 
ence  to  any  one's  pleasure  but  your  own.  Don't  think  to 
awe  me,  Champ,  for  you  cannot.  I  say  it's  a  shame — a 
burning  shame  !  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  treat  Clare 
so.  You  know  it  will  break  her  heart,  but  this  has  no 
weight  with  you.  /  don't  mean  to  submit  to  your  scowling 
and  growling,  though,"  added  Miss  Alethea,  "  I  can  tell 
you,  sir." 

Mr.  Effingham  rose  and  said  to  a  servant  who  was  going 
out — 

"  Pack  my  portmanteau,  and  order  my  horse." 

And  without  further  words  he  left  the  room,  and  was 
seen  by  that  lady  no  more.  She  half  regretted  her  vehe 
mence,  for  she '  was  a  woman  of  excellent  heart  at  bottom, 
but  her  strong  religious  feelings,  made  her  intolerant  of  con 
duct  like  that  attributed  to  Mr.  Effingham ;  and  the  result 
of  an  argument  held  with  her  conscience,  was,  that  she  had 
not  said  a  word  too  much. 

Those  words  had  put  the  capstone  upon  Mr.  Effingham's 
feelings,  and  he  went  to  his  room,  paJe,  and  with  a  sueer  upon 
his  lip,  which  boded  no  good.  Thenceforth  he  was  perfectly 
reckless. 


CHAMP    EFPINGHAM,    ESQ.,    COMEDIAN.  1 19 

CHAPTER   XXI. 

CHAMP  EFFINGHAM,  ESQ.,  COMEDIAN. 

ON  the  next  morning  Mr.  Champ  Effingham  made  his  ap 
peal  ance  in  Williamsburg,  accompanied  by  a  mounted  ser 
vant,  and  the  two  horsemen  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the 
Raleigh  Tavern.  The  portly  landlord  came  forth,  cap  in 
hand,  to  welcome  him. 

"  Well,  Master  B;niface,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  ele 
gant  pleasantry,  "  is  the  room  my  servant  engaged — No.  6 — 
ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir — quite  ready,  sir." 

"  Carry  up  my  portmanteau,"  said  Mr.  Effingham  to  the 
negro,  who  had  brought  that  article  behind  him,  "  and  then 
return.  Answer  no  foolish  questions  asked  you  do  not 
hear." 

"  No,  Massa  Champ,"  said  Tom,  with  the  grin  of  intelli 
gence  peculiar  to  his  race,  "  not  by  no  means,  sir." 

"  And  tell  no  lies  either  :  if  you  do,  I'll  amputate  your 
ears." 

Having  given  this  caution,  and  made  this  unmistakable 
promise,  which  the  negro  received  with  a  broader  grin,  as  he 
turned  away,  Mr.  Effingham  lounged  into  the  ordinary. 

"  Where's  Hallam  ?  "  he  asked,  sitting  down  carelessly. 

"  He's  out  somewhere,  sir — at  the  theatre,  I  should  say  : 
but  this  is  nearly  his  rum  hour,"  laughed  the  landlord. 

"  Bring  me  a  cup,"  said  Mr.  Effingham ;  "  or  no,  I'll 
have  some  claret." 

The  landlord  hastened  to  bring  the  wine,  and  placed  the 
bottle  at  Mr.  Effingham's  elbow. 

"  A  cracker  !  " 

The  cracker  was  brought  with  the  same  respectful  rapidi 
ty,  or  rather  a  basket  of  those  edibles,  placed  generally  at 
hand,  then  as  now,  to  refresh  the  company.  Mr.  Effingham 
then  betook  himself  to  the  agreeable  employment  of  sipping 
his  claret,  one  leg  being  thrown  carelessly  over  the  arm  of 
his  leather-bottomed  chair  :  and  when  tired  of  this  monotony, 
he  varied  it  by  d-pping  a  cracker  in  his  wine-glass,  and 
throwing  his  leg  over  the  other  arm.  The  young  gentleataa 


120  CHAMt»    EFFINGHAM,    ESQ.,    COMEDIAN. 

was  more  than  usually  splendid  :  his  coat  of  crimson  cut 
velvet,  was  ornamented  with  a  mass  of  the  richest  embroid 
ery,  and  had  chased  gold  buttons : — his  waistcoat  was  of 
yellow  silk,  with  flowers  worked  in  silver  thread,  and  his  new 
cocked  hat,  just  from  London,  was  resplendent  with  its 
sweeping  feather.  At  his  side  dangled  the  finest  of  his 
short  swords,  and,  altogether,  Mr.  Champ  Effingham  seemed, 
to  judge  from  his  "  outward  accoutrement,"  the  very  pet  of 
fortune.  His  manner  was  not  unsuited  to  his  dress  :  it  was, 
if  possible,  more  nonchalant  and  indifferent  than  ever  ;  but 
any  one  who  would  have  taken  the  trouble  to  scan  the  hand- 
Borne  face  closely,  would  have  perceived  a  dark  shadow  un 
der  the  eyes,  which  betokened  sleepless  nights,  and  a  reck 
less,  mocking  expression  upon  the  lips,  very  much  at  variance 
with  the  petit  maitre  airs  assumed  by  the  young  gentleman. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  Mr.  Effingham  was  visibly  be 
coming  very  impatient,  when  the  entrance  of  the  manager 
caused  him  to  lay  down  the  "  stupid  gazette  "  he  had  been 
reading  and  maligning  for  the  last  fifteen  minutes. 

"  Ah  !  there  you  are  at  last,  Hallam,"  he  said,  "  what  the 
devil  kept  you  so  long  ?  " 

The  fat  manager  received  this  address  with  great  good- 
humor,  and  replied,  that  they  had  been  getting  up  a  play  of 
the  "  great  Congreve  "  for  that  night's  performance. 

"  You  had  better  let  Congreve  alone,  and  stick  to  Shake 
speare,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  "  he  won't  take  here  among 
these  barbarous  Virginians.  But  come  here,  and  drink 
some  claret  with  me — I'm  tired  of  it  myself:  bring  me 
some  rum  ! " 

The  rum  came,  and  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  sat  down. 

"  Good  ?  "  Paid  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  Very  excellent  indeed,  sir,"  said  Hallam,  smacking 
his  lips. 

"  Well,  now,  let  us  come  to  the  matter  1  am  thinking 
about.  Hallam,  I  am  going  to  join  the  company." 

"  The  company,  sir  1 " 

"  Yes — your  company  :  what,  the  devil  1  Is  there  any 
thing  so  astounding  in  that  ?  " 

"  Really,  sir — really  now — you  take  me  quite  aback  1 
You  join  the  company  ?  " 

"  Yea !      The  '  Virginia   Company  of  Comedians.1    IB 


CHAMP    EFFINGHAM,    ESQ.,    COMEDIAN.  12 

there  any  thing  strange  in  a  Virginian  belonging  to  that  ex- 
cellent  association  of  his  Majesty's,  or  his  Excellency^ 
players  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  sir,"  said  the  manager,  laboring  under 
great  astonishment,  "  never  in  my  life — " 

"  Why,  what  surprises  you  ?  " 

"  That  a  gentleman  of  your  wealth  and  standing  should 
join  us." 

"  Curse  my  wealth  and  standing  1  That  is  not  youi 
look  out." 

"  But  it  is  yours,  sir,"  said  the  manager,  with  a  troubled 
look,  "  if  you  knew  about  these  things — your  family,  sir — 
really  a  most  extraordinary  proposal — " 

"  Come,  no  humbug  !  Let  us  look  at  the  matter.  I  am 
a  gentleman,  you  say,  and  I  have  a  family  to  affect.  That 
is  a  mistake — any  thing  I  do  will  not  affect  my  family:  and 
if  it  does,  I  am  a  free  man.  Now,  on  the  other  side — I 
rather  natter  myself  your  house  would  be  filled,  when  Champ 
Effinghain,  Esq.,  was  announced  in  some  thrilling  and  over 
whelming  part.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  Drink  there  ! 
give  me  another  cup." 

"  You  would  really  play,  sir  ?  "  said  the  manager,  sur 
veying  his  position  with  a  hurried  glance,  "  you  would  real 
ly  appear  ?  " 

"  Bah  1  you  don't  know  me.  Of  course  I  would :  and 
the  fact  would  appear  to  you  too,  in  adding  up  your  re 
ceipts.  I  needn't  tell  you  that  when  a  gentleman  takes  to 
the  stage,  something  more  is  due  him  than  what  your  com 
mon  fellow  gets — '  a  beggarly  account  of  empty  benches.'  " 

Hallam  hesitated;  evidently  troubled. 

"  I  would,  you  know,  sir,  be  more  than  pleased — it  would 
make  my  fortune,  sir — I  feel,  sir,  that  I  ought  not  to  hesi 
tate—" 

"  Bah  1  don't  hesitate,  then.  Can't  you  understand 
that  I  would  make  a  better  Romeo,  a  better  any  thing,  act 
ing  with  Beatrice,  than  that  stupid  fellow  Pugsby  ?  " 

A  light  dawned  on  the  muddy  brain  of  Mr.  Manager 
Ilallam.  Here  was  the  exciting  cause :  Beatrice  was  the 
engine  which  had  produced  this  extraordinary  convulsion  in 
the  heart  of  Mr.  Effingham.  And  with  the  thought  in  his 
mind,  the  course  he  ought  to  pursue  became  plainer  One 
6 


122  CHAMP    EFFINGHAM,    ESQ.,    COMEDIAN. 

of  the  darling  projects  of  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  was  to 
marry  his  accomplished  and  beautiful  daughter  to  some 
wealthy  and  high-born  youth : — once  married,  Beatrice 
would,  of  course,  abandon  the  stage :  that  was  the  loss  to 
him — but  the  advantages  of  such  connection  would  vastly 
outweigh  this.  The  manager  was  growing  old,  and  getting 
tired  of  his  nomadic,  restless  life ;  tossed  from  inn  to  inn, 
from  country  to  country  :  and  he  wished  to  settle  down. 
Now,  if  Beatrice  married,  of  course,  her  husband  would  not 
separate  the  daughter  from  the  father  : — the  consequence  ? 
"  I  would  live  in  clover  all  the  rest  of  my  life,  in  a  fine 
house,  with  plenty  to  drink,  tictac  every  night,  and  nothing 
to  do  but  eat,  drink,  and  sleep,"  he  said  to  himself.  To  eat, 
drink,  and  sleep  was  the  height  of  this  worthy  gentleman's 
ambition,  and  he  had  already  conceived  the  intention  of  per 
forming  those  agreeable  ceremonies,  for  the  rest  of  his  days, 
at  Effingham  Hall,  if  that  were  possible  in  the  nature  of 
things. 

The  reader  will  now  be  able  to  understand  the  effect  pro 
duced  upon  the  worthy  manager  by  the  mention  of  Beatrice's 
name.  That  explained  all.  Mr.  Effingham  was  desperately 
enamored  of  her — his  family  no  doubt  scoffed  at  the  con 
nection — he  came  to  join  the  company — time  would  do  the 
rest;  and,  once  married,  a  few  dramatic  scenes  of  father's 
weeping  and  relenting— daughter-in-law  kneeling  in  tears — 
son  promising  to  be  immaculate  in  future,  would  make  all 
well  again.  He  trusted  to  his  theatrical  experience  to  ar 
range  these  little  matters,  and  already  dreamed  of  ending 
his  days  tranquilly,  in  what  he  seemed  to  consider  the  place 
of  happiness — in  "  clover." 

So,  when  Mr.  Effingham  had  repeated  his  disdainful  ques 
tion,  "  Would  he  not  make  a  better  companion  for  Beatrice, 
in  every  thing,  than  that  stupid  fellow,  Pugsby  ? "  Mr. 
Manager  Hallam  melted  from  his  doubtful  state  of  mind 
into  increasing  conviction,  and  said,  that  "  He  really  felt— 
hum — he  must  certainly  acknowledge — hum — Pugsby  was 
certainly  not  what  he  had  been ;  and,  if  Mr.  Effingham  was 
bent  on  joining  them,  he  did  not  feel  himself  at  liberty  to 
refuse  his  most  flattering  proposal.  As  the  great  Congreve 
had  said  to  him,  on  one  occasion,  such  common  players  as 
himself  could  not  feel  too  much  flattered  when  gentlemen 


CHAMP    EFFINGHAM,    ESQ.,    COMEDIAN.  123 

condescended  to  associate  with  them  on  terms  of  equality  ; 
and  nothing  was  more  reasonable.  He  could  not  refuse  Mr. 
Effingham,  whom  he  was  proud  to  call  his  friend ;  he  had 
many  such  distinguished  friends ;  among  the  most  so,  the 
great  Congreve.  Therefore,  if  Mr.  Effingham  was  still  of 
the  same  mind,  he  would  be  most  proud,  most  flattered  to 
have  him.  He  would  find  them  a  plain,  honest  set ;  and  the 
only  drawback  was  on  the  delicate  subject  of  his  remunera 
tion.  For,  as  to  salary,  he  feared " 

"  Curse  the  salary !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  disdain 
ful  carelessness — he  had  listened  to  the  above  tirade  with 
perfect  indifference — "  I  don't  want  your  money,  Hallam. 
You  don't  think  that  I  would  join  your  set  for  a  few  pis 
toles,  do  you  ?  No,  sir  !  I  have  quite  sufficient ;  but  what 
I  want  is  excitement,  novelty,,  jovial  society.  I'm  sick  of 
she  well-bred  insipidity  of  good  society,  and  the  '  repose  ' 
they  consider  the  summum  bonum  and  great  desideratum 
of  human  existence.  I'm  done  with  it — tired  of  it.  I  am 
going  to  pick  out  a  piece  to  act  this  very  day.  Go,  and  put 
'  Champ  Effingham,  Esq.,'  on  your  roll  of  comedians." 

And  Champ  Effingham,  Esq.,  rising  from  his  seat,  went 
out,  and  stood  at  the  door  of  the  Raleigh,  yawning  and 
frowning,  and  scowling  on  such  members  of  that  insipid  good 
society  as  passed  in  their  coaches.  .  He  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  return  the  nods  of  the  gentlemen,  or  the  smiles 
of  the  ladies.  He  felt  perfectly  reckless,  and  cared,  at  that 
moment,  for  no  human  being  on  earth.  Yes,  there  was  one 
whom  he  loved  and  hated,  blessed  and  cursed ;  and  she 
passed  him,  coming  from  the  theatre,  with  a  quick  step,  and 
an  averted  face.  Why,  else,  did  the  frown  become  deeper, 
and  the  glance  of  the  eye  grow  more  gloomy  and  reckless  ? 

Beatrice  hurried  up  to  her  room,  and  Mr.  Effingham  re- 
entered,  and  began  again  to  converse  again  with  the  manager, 
a?er  a  second  bottle  of  claret. 


124  THK   BOOH   OF   THK   "OAZETIE"   OFT  1C*. 

CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE  DOOE  OF  THE  "  GAZETTE  "  OFFICE. 

AFTER  his  interview  with  Beatrice,  Charles  Waters  re- 
turned  homeward,  lost  in  thought.  Was  he  pondering  again 
upon  his  system  of  education,  or  upon  any  of  his  novel 
political  ideas,  such  as  Parson  Tag  had  "  called  to  the  atten 
tion  "  of  the  squire,  for  their  absurd  and  treasonable  cha 
racter  ?  Was  he  admiring  the  beautiful  autumn  woods,  all 
yellow,  and  gold,  and  crimson,  through  which  the  fresh  fall 
breezes  laughed  and  sang,  from  the  far  surging  ocean  ? 
None  of  these  things  occupied  his  thoughts ;  ideas  of  na 
tional  politics  were  as  far  from  his  mind  as  the  forest,  which 
his  dreamy  eye  took  no  note  of. 

He  was  thinking  of  that  young  girl  he  had  just  left ;  so 
womanly,  yet  childlike ;  so  beautiful  and  attractive  in  the 
richness  of  her  great  loveliness  ;  yet  so  like  a  girl  who  has 
never  thought  to  bind  up  the  careless  waves  of  her  hair. 
What  an  anomaly  was  here  !  And  was  there  not  food  for 
thought  ?  He  had  seen  her  on  the  stage,  and,  spite  of  his 
total  ignorance  of  what  acting  was,  felt  perfectly  convinced 
that  she  was  a  great  genius  ;  and  now  this  splendid  woman, 
whose  magical  voice  had  interpreted  every  change  and  phase 
of  passion,  glancing  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  tones, 
with  lightning-like  rapidity  and  marvellous  ease ;  whose 
attitudes  were  so  grand,  whose  very  walk  rivetted  the  atten 
tion,  and  hushed  the  crowd ;  this  great  interpreter  of  the 
greatest  of  human  intellects,  with  whose  name  the  whole 
colony  was  ringing,  had  thrown  aside  in  his  presence  all  this 
intellect  and  strength,  to  take  his  hand,  and  laugh  merrily, 
and  talk  with  rapture  of  the  fresh  beauty  of  the  river  and 
the  forest,  and,  like  a  child,  plead  for  another  visit  from 
him  !  Was  the  scene  real  or  imaginary  ? 

He  passed  over  the  whole  distance  between  Williams- 
burg  and  his  home  in  a  dream,  and  all  that  day,  and  for 
more  than  a  week  thereafter,  was  plainly  busy  with  some 
problem  that  he  could  not  explain  to  his  satisfaction.  He 
would  go  and  work  in  the  field  ;  and,  before  he  knew  it,  find 
himself  leaning  on  his  spade  and  murmuring,  "  Could  she 


THE  DOOR  OF  THE  (t  GAZETTE "  OFFICE.       125 

have  acted  all  this  ?  "  He  pored  over  his  books  hour  after 
hour,  and  found  he  had  made  no  progress;  for  her  image 
rose  in  all  its  fresh  and  tender  beauty  between  him  and  the 
page.  Then  he  became  conscious  of  his  preoccupation,  and 
determined  to  banish  it.  She  was  nothing  to  him — he  had 
other  ends  in  life,  and  other  duties  than  idle  visits.  This 
young  woman  was,  no  doubt,  very  original  and  striking  in 
every  point  of  view,  and  he  felt  a  strange  sympathy  with 
her — a  strange  sensation  of  having  seen  and  known  her  else 
where,  perhaps  in  another  world — but  that  was  nothing  to 
him.  Realities  were  his  food,  not  fancies — henceforth  he 
would  drive  from  his  mind  this  fit  of  dreaming. 

And  he  succeeded.  This  young  man  had  a  mind  of  rare 
vigor  and  resolution ;  he  had  trained  his  mind  like  a  courser 
to  obey  the  bridle,  and  now  he  found  the  effect  of  this  mental 
discipline.  By  degrees  the  young  girl's  image  no  longer 
made  his  eye  brighter,  his  lip  wreath  into  a  tender  smile; 
he  returned  to  his  grave,  patient  labor,  and  his  thoughts  on 
the  great  questions  which  absorbed  him. 

On  the  day  after  Mr.  Eflmgham's  instalment  at  the 
Raleigh,  Charles  Waters  visited  Williamsburg  again.  Hill 
business  was  to  procure  some  little  articles  for  his  father 
who  seldom  went  to  the  town — Lanky,  the  lad  we  have  seen 
on  the  day  of  the  river  adventure,  attending  to  the  sale  of 
fish  and  other  things  which  old  Waters  sent  to  market. 
Having  dispatched  his  errand,  he  went  to  the  office  of  the 
"  Virginia  Gazette  "  to  purchase  a  copy. 

As  he  was  coining  out  with  the  paper  in  his  had,  he  felt 
a  touch  upon  his  arm,  and  turning  round,  perceived  his  friend 
with  the  red  cloak,  who  had  come  for  the  same  purpose,  it 
seemed,  as  he  had  a  copy  of  the  Gazette  under  his  arm. 

"  We  are  well  met,  friend,"  said  the  man  in  the  red  cloak, 
"  and  at  a  place  which  is  -not  extraordinary.  We  might 
have  expected  to  find  each  other  here." 

"  How  so  ?  "  asked  Charles  Waters,  gravely  extending 
his  hand,  but  betraying  evident  pleasure  at  the  meeting. 

"  Why,"  replied  his  companion,  "  we  are  both  thinkers." 

"  Yes,  but—" 

"  And  as  thinkers  must  have  food  for  thought,"  added 
the  man  in  the  red  cloak,  "  we  both  decided,  some  moments 
lince,  to  ccme  and  purchase  the  '  Gazette.'  Is  it  fitt  so  ?  " 

"  With  roe—yea." 


126  1HK    DOOR   OF    THE    "GAZETTE"    OFF1CJ. 

"  Something  new  is  as  much  your  passion,  or  I  greatly 
mistake,  as  it  is  my  own.  What  is  new  in  facts,  what  is  new 
in  ideas  ?  " 

"  You  will  search  long  in  this  paper  for  the  latter  novelty,' 
eaid  the  other ;  "  there  is  generally,  however,  a  good  budget 
of  news  from  Norfolk,  York,  and — when  a  vessel  arrives — 
from  England." 

"  Good  1  That  is  what  we  want  more  than  comments  on 
facts.  Give  me  the  food — I  can  myself  digest  it.  I  beg 
leave  to  decline  taking  any  writer's  opinion  on  the  eternal 
legislation  in  Parliament  on  Virginia  affairs — the  said  opinion 
being  invariably  favorable  to  government.  I  ask  for  the 
new  act  of  Parliament — I  will  light  my  pipe  with  the  com 
mentary." 

"  Still  the  two  things  might  be  combined  in  a  gazette." 

"  Yes,  when  thought  is  free." 

"  It  will  be,  some  day." 

"Well,  I  think  so,  too,"  said  the  man  in  the  red  cloak. 
"  I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  the  day  when  the  public  journal 
will  be  the  great  speaker  of  the  time — though  I  could  never 
express  my  own  ideas  with  a  pen ;  it  freezes  me — I  dream 
sometimes  of  this  mingled  chronicle  and  essay  you  mention  • 
a  great  daily  volume,  containing  intelligence  from  every 
quarter  of  the  world,  news  upon  every  subject,  comment  free 
from  partisan  falsehood ;  and  this  great  organ  of  thought  I 
sometimes  think  will,  in  future,  be  scattered  over  the  land 
like  the  leaves  of  that  antumn  forest  yonder.  When  the 
time  comes,  mankind  will  take  a  great  stride  onward." 

"  I  scarcely  hope  to  liw-  so  Isng,"  said  his  companion. 

"  Why  ?     The  new  era  comes  slowly,  but  still  comes." 

"  This  paper  I  hold  in  my  hand  is  a  bad  commencement 
of  your  grand  dream,  liberty  !  Yos,  liberty  will  come — but 
will  it  be  in  our  day  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  liberty  ? "  said  the  stranger, 
bending  his  keen  eye  on  his  companion ;  "  are  men  fit  for 
such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Let  us  see,  now — but  here  we  are  at  the  Raleigh 
Tavern,  accompany  me  to  my  room,  and  we  will  talk  ;  or  if 
not  talk,  I  will  play  you  a  tune  on  the  violin,  and  before  you 
go  ahow  you  something  I  have  written." 


A  THINKER  OF  THE  YEAR  OF  GRACE,  1763.      127 

Charles  Waters  willingly  complied,  and,  passing  Beatrice's 
4oor,  which  he  merely  glanced  at,  they  entered  the  apart 
ment  of  the  stranger.  It  was,  like  most  rooms  in  Virginia 
taverns,  of  considerable  extent,  and  of  a  rather  bare  appear 
ance.  In  one  corner,  a  neat  bed  covered  with  a  white  coun 
terpane,  stood,  with  its  tall,  slender  posts ;  and  the  rest  of 
the  furniture  consisted  of  a  rude  oaken  table  and  some 
leather-bottomed  chairs.  On  the  table  lay  a  violin  and  bow, 
and  beneath  it  an  open  book.  The  fire-place  had  two  square 
stones  in  place  of  andirons,  and  these  stones  now  supported 
an  armful  of  twigs,  which  were  crackling  and  blazing  plea 
santly.  The  day  was  not  cold,  but  the  stranger  seemed  to 
be  one  of  those  men  who  rightly  consider  a  cheerful  blaze 
always  pleasant,  and  he  sat  down  before  it,  resting  his 
rudely-shod  feet  on  the  iron  fender.  His  companion  sat 
down  opposite,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  silence.  It  was 
first  broken  by  the  man  in  the  red  cloak,  who  said  : 

"  We  are  now  separated  from  the  outer  world;  this  inn 
is  our  castle,  and  before  I  amuse  you,  as  my  guest,  by  play 
ing  the  violin,  let  us  have  a  few  words  upon  the  subject  we 
were  speaking  of  but  now." 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

A  THINKEB  OF  THE  YEAE  OF  GBACE,  1T68. 

CHARLES  Waters  sat  down,  and  resting  his  elbow  on  the 
table,  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand;  he  seemed  to  be  think 
ing  ;  but  scarcely  upon  the  subject  they  had  adverted  to,  if 
one  might  have  formed  any  opinion  from  the  compression 
of  the  lips  and  the  troubled  expression  of  the  eyes.  The 
man  in  the  red  cloak,  whose  keen  eye  nothing  seemed  to 
escape,  observed  this  expression,  and  determined  to  try  the 
effect  of  music.  The  reader  will  have  already  perceived, 
that  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  this  strange  man,  was  great 
curiosity  as  to  the  working  of  the  human  heart,  and  the 
means  of  affecting  men  through  their  feelings.  He  took  up 
the  violin,  which  was  an  old  battered  instrument  of  littlq 


128     A  THINKER  OF  THE  YEAR  OF  GRACE,  1763. 

value,  but  not  without  much  sweetness  of  tone,  and  drew 
the  bow  across  the  strings. 

"  What  shall  I  play  ?  "  he  said.  His  companion  raised 
his  head  at  the  sound  of  the  stranger's  voice,  and  looked  at 
him  inquiringly. 

The  man  in  the  red  cloak  repeated  his  question  with  a 
slight  smile. 

"  Any  thing,"  said  the  other,  relapsing  into  reverie  again ; 
he  was  subject  to  these  fits  of  thinking,  and  the  stranger 
seemed  to  understand  the  fact ;  for  he  commenced  playing 
without  taking  any  notice  of  his  auditor's  preoccupation  and 
indifference.  His  bowing  was  firm  and  strong,  and  playing 
evidently  from  his  ear  wholly,  he  executed  a  minuet  with 
great  delicacy  and  force.  His  whole  soul  seemed  to  be  ab 
sorbed  in  the  grand  floating  strain,  which,  with  its  crescen- 
dos  and  cadences,  sweeping  onward  in  full  flood,  or  dying 
like  sinking  winds,  filled  the  whole  chamber  with  a  gush  of 
harmony.  But  still  his  eye  was  fixed  curiously  upon  his 
companion,  and  he  noted  with  great  care  every  change  of 
expression  in  the  lips,  the  brow,  and  the  eyes  veiled  with 
their  long  dusky  lashes.  He  finished  with  a  vigorous  flou 
rish,  and  Charles  Waters  raised  his  head. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  asked  his  companion. 

"  Yes ;  you  are  a  fine  player,  sir,"  he  said  indifferently. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  a  Virginia  reel  ?  " 

"  No,  I  prefer  the  other,  which  is  a  minuet,  I  believe." 

"  Yes  ;  but  listen  to  this." 

And,  first  tuning  a  rebellious  string,  the  stranger  struc* 
up,  with  a  vigorous  and  masculine  movement  of  the  elbow, 
one  of  those  merry  and  enlivening  tunes,  which  seem  to  fill 
the  air  with  joy  and  mirth.  His  fingers  played  upon  the 
strings  like  lightning,  the  bow  rose,  and  fell,  and  darted 
backward  and  forward ;  and,  throwing  his  whole  heart  into 
the  piece,  the  stranger  seemed  to  imagine  himself  in  the 
midst  of  some  scene  of  festivity  and  laughter,  to  be  sur 
rounded  by  a  crowd  of  bright  forms  and  merriest  faces,  run 
ning  through  the  dance,  and  moving  in  obedience  to  hi* 
magical  bow.  He  wound  up  with  a  tumultuous,  deafening 
roar,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  crisp  hair  seeming  to  more  with 
the  music : — and  then,  stopping  suddenly,  laid  down  the  in 
strument.  Charles  Waters  raised  his  head,  waked,  so  to 
epeak,  by  the  silence. 


A  THINKER  OF  THE  TEAK  5f  GRACE,  1763.      109 

"  f  ou  play  excellently  well,  sir,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  am  BO 
wholly  ignorant  of  music,  that  my  praise,  doubtless,  is  of 
little  value." 

This  seemed  to  afford  the  stranger  much  satisfaction : 
he  evidently  prided  himself  upon  his  proficiency  on  the  in 
strument. 

"  It  is  a  very  enviable  accomplishment,"  his  companion 
added,  "  for  it  affords  you  the  means  of  easily  contributing 
to  harmless  enjoyment.  Music  is  a  great  educator,  too.  Dan 
cing  is  one  of  the  most  healthful  and  innocent  of  pastimes,  1 
am  convinced ;  and  the  violin  is,  I  believe,  the  best  instru 
ment  to  dance  to." 

"  Yes — yes  :  none  other  is  comparable  to  it,  and  I  con 
fess  I  do  feel  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  I  perform  tolera 
bly  on  this  great'  instrument.  There  is  but  one  other  supe 
rior  to  it." 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  The  human  voice." 

"  Yes — yes,  I  understand." 

"  That  is,  after  all,  the  great  master-instrument,  con 
structed  by  the  Deity.  The  violin  is  merry  and  joyous,  or 
mournful  and  sombre,  but  the  voice  is  all  this,  and  all  else, 
in  a  degree  ten  thousand  times  more  powerful.  To  move, 
to  agitate,  to  sway,  to  bend ;  what  is  like  it.  Ah  !  my  Livy, 
there,  upon  the  table,  gives  me  the  words  ;  but  who  shall  fill 
my  ear  with  the  magical  voices,  dead  and  silent!  Who 
shall  'speak  the  speech,'  as  Virginius  did,  when  fronting  the 
tyrant  Appius,  he  plunged  the  dagger  into  his  child  ?  Would 
I  had  been  there !  "  added  the  stranger,  with  one  of  those 
brilliant  flashes  which  seemed,  at  times,  to  convert  his  eyes 
into  flame.  But  before  his  companion  could  reply,  this  ex 
pression  had  disappeared,  and  the  man  in  the  red  cloak  took 
up  the  open  volume  of  Livy,  and,  turning  over  the  leaves, 
carelessly,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Virginius  and  his  mis 
fortune,  in  a  moment. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  with  one  of  his  adroit  turns,  and 
apparently  desiring  to  make  the  other  talk,  "  after  all,  I 
don't  know  whether  Appius  was  so  much  worse  than  other 
despots  :  and  men  have  in  all  ages  required  to  be  ruled  strong 
ly,  and  often  tyrannically.  Despots  are  disagreeable,  but 
necessary." 


130  A   THINKER    OP  TtiE   YEAR    OF  GRA.E,    1763. 

Waters  looked  at  bis  companion  with  astonishment :  he 
th  mght  he  must  be  jesting :  but  there  was  not  the  least  in 
dication  of  any  such  thing  :  his  countenance — that  index  oi 
the  mind,  ordinarily — betrayed  nothing  of  the  sort.  Appa 
rently  the  stranger  had  spoken  these  words  in  perfect  good 
faith. 

"  Could  I  have  understood  you,  sir,"  said  the  thinker, 
"  and  did  you  really  mean  that  men  required  despotic  rulers?' 

"  Yes  :  certainly." 

"This,  from  yew?" 

"  Come,  come — you  may  have  taken  up  a  "wrong  impres 
sion  in  regard  to  my  opinions ;  let  us  not  break  into  excla 
mations,  companion  ;  rather  let  us  sift  opinions  and  compare 
ideas.  Is  it  not  undeniable  that  men  in  all  ages  have  been 
weak  and  faltering,  preferring  rather  the  bad  and  false  to 
the  great  and  good  ?  and  if  this  is  true,  does  it  not  follow  that 
despots  are  a  necessity  of  the  world's  being  ?  " 

"Ah  ! "  said  his  companion,  "  but  that  is  not  true — it  is 
false,  permit  me  to  say  honestly,  and  with  no  desire  to  offend 
you — " 

"  Not  at  all — not  at  all :  go  on." 

"  I  deny  your  maxim  totally,  sir — it  is  not  true." 

"  Have  not  the  records  of  the  world  proved  it  ?  Are  they 
not  darkened  every  where  by  deeds  which  prove  the  truth  of 
the  Bible,  saying,  that  mankind  are  prone  to  deceit  and  des 
perately  wicked  V — have  not  the  annals  of  all  lands  and  gov 
ernments  shown  conclusively,  that  truth  and  grandeur  and 
purity  have  ever  attracted  to  themselves  envy  and  hatred, 
malice,  and  all  uncharitableneps  ?  Come  I  let  me  hear  you 
deny  that  men  are  radically  hateful,  false,  unworthy  of  trust, 
as  they  are  of  respect :  come,  let  me  hear  you  deny  that  they 
are  swine  before  whom  it  is  the  merest  boyish  folly  to  throw 
that  brilliant  pearl  called  liberty.  You  cannot  deny  the 
truth  of  this  view  : — men  have  always  been  radically  false 
and  unworthy." 

"  I  do  deny  it,  sir,"  said  Waters,  his  brow  flushing  and 
his  eyes  suddenly  growing  brilliant  with  the  fires  of  enthusi 
asm.  "  Never  was  any  philosophy  so  weak,  so  wholly  based 
on  sand  I  It  is  a  dreadful,  an  awfal  philosophy,  that  which 
scoffs  at  and  seeks  to  overthrow  all  that  is  pure  and  worthy 
in  our  fellow-men — all  that  is  brilliant  and  imposing  for  it* 


A  THINKER  OF  THE  YEAR  OF  GRACE,  1763.     131 

truth  and  beauty  in  the  annals  of  the  race  !  I  cannot  beliera 
that  you  speak  seriously,  for  I  have  seen  that  in  your  eyes 
and  your  spoken  words  which  is  opposed  to  this  terrible  phi 
losophy  utterly.  No,  sir  I  men  are  not  by  nature  destitute 
of  truth  and  love,  nobility  and  purity — the  annals  of  the 
world  show  how  untrue  it  is.  Go  back  as  far  as  you  may, 
penetrate  the  gloom  which  wraps  the  overthrown  columns  of 
the  Syrian  desert,  the  Egyptian  plains,  and  you  will  find  in 
the  midst  of  crime  and  falsehood  the  light  of  heaven  ;  among 
those  monsters  whom  God,  for  His  own  wise  purposes,  sent 
upon  the  earth,  flowers  of  majesty  and  honor ;  in  the  moral 
desert  those  oases  of  verdure  and  pure  limpid  waters,  which 
prove  that  beneath  this  burning  sand  the  eternal  springs 
exist,  the  germ  remains.  No ;  I  do  not  deny  that  men  have 
in  all  ages  fallen  and  sinned — yes,  they  have  hated  and 
despised,  blasphemed  and  cursed,  dyed  their  right  arms  in 
blood,  and  revelled  in  the  foul,  the  false,  the  unnatural. 
None  can  dispute  it.  I  acknowledge  it.  But  what  is  equally 
true  is  this — that  every  where  the  instincts  of  humanity, 
planted  by  God  in  it,  have  revolted  against  this  abnormal 
state ;  love  has  effaced  hatred,  justice  the  spirit  of  wrong ; 
heaven  has  opened  and  the  abyss  has  closed  ! 

"  Go  into  this  Golgotha  of  nations,  this  Jehosaphat  of 
extinct  generations,  and  question  those  dry  bones  which  once 
supported  living  frames  such  as  our  own  here  now.  They 
will  make  you  but  one  reply — a  reply  which  embraces 
the  history  of  humanity — '  I  sinned,  I  repented ;  I  wa? 
human,  I  endeavored  to  grow  divine.'  Look  at  Greece. 
Rome,  Modern  Europe — embrace  at  a  glance  the  whole  sur 
face  of  three  distinct  civilizations,  three  diverse  ages,  from 
horizon  to  horizon,  from  their  dawning  in  the  East,  fresh, 
rosy,  and  pure,  to  their  sad  and  sorrowful  decline — sorrowful 
and  sad  because  the  soul  ever  doubted — ever  was  afraid  to 
hope  for  the  new  dawn  1  In  Greece,  art  overthrowing  rude 
ness,  beauty  driving  away  deformity — the  good  and  beauti 
ful  passionately  yearned  for  by  all  classes  of  men — eternally 
sought !  The  childlike  and  poetical  nature  filling  the  streams 
with  naiads,  the  woods  with  dryads,  the  mountains  with  the 
oreads  and  the  graces — every  where  the  false,  which  is  the 
deformed,  overthrown  to  make  way  for  the  true,  which  is  the 
beautiful  Arcadian  temples  glittering  in  the  forests,  alUri 


132  A   THINKER    OP   THE    TEAR    iP  GRACE,    1763. 

of  white  marble  crowniiig  the  blue  mountains.  Phidias  and 
Apelles,  famous  in  all  countries  for  their  incarnations  of 
grace  and  beauty,  rather  than  their  incarnation  of  the  Gre 
cian  idea  I  And  not  in  sculpture  and  painting  only  did  the 
true  and  beautiful  conquer  the  false  and  deformed.  In  liter 
ature,  Sophocles  and  Euripides  purified  the  heart  by  pity 
and  terror — Aristophanes  lashed  with  his  satire  the  un 
worthy  and  despicable — Homer  embodied  in  his  heroes  grace 
and  strength,  as  in  Achilles — nobility  and  tenderness,  as  in 
Hector — in  Ulysses,  the  dignity  of  suffering  and  misfortune. 
Socrates  taught  immortality  —  Plato  penetrated  the  mists 
of  prejudice  »nd  ignorance  with  that  glance  of  lightning 
given  him  by  God.  Every  where  mind  overcame  matter, 
the  moral  conquered  the  brutal ;  and  such  was  the  force  of 
their  teachings,  the  vitality  of  their  dogmas,  that  all  the 
nations  of  the  world  turned  their  eyes  to  Greece  as  toward 
the  dawn  of  civilization. 

u  The  cry,  '  Great  Pan  is,  dead  ! '  was  only  heard  when  the 
Roman  Colossus  had  strangled  in  his  arms  this  nascent  civili 
zation,  this  pure  ray  of  the  dawn.  Pan  had  taught  men  hus 
bandry,  and  tranquil  country  happiness,  and  that  wars  should 
be  no  more.  When  he  died,  that  cry  told  the  nations  that 
the  glory  of  Greece  had  disappeared,  and  with  it  the  only 
civilization  which  surpassed  the  ripe  majesty  of  Rome.  But 
that  civilization  was  not  altogether  lost ;  Juvenal  was  greater 
than  Aristophanes,  as  Cato  and  Cicero  rose  in  moral  height 
above  the  statesmen  of  Athens.  You  know  well  the  history 
of  that  empire,  stretching  its  vast  roads  through  every  land, 
and  drawing  to  the  great  centre,  the  imperial  city,  towards 
which  those  vast  highways  converged  the  silks,  and  gold,  and 
pearls  of  every  land — the  captives  of  all  nations. 

"  I  know  that  you  would  say  that  human  depravity  cul 
minated  in  those  emperors — and  that  they  had  fit  subjects. 
Yes;  God  had  given  that  race  dominion,  permitted  it  to 
conquer  every  land,  and  then  cursed  it  with  rottenness  and 
decay.  Men  felt  the  divine  curse,  and  shook  their  clenched 
hands  at  the  gods  in  impotent  wrath.  See  how  every  thing 
reveals  the  despair  which  fell  upon  the  men  of  Rome ;  see 
how  the  race,  blind,  staggering,  rioting  in  an  eternal  orgy, 
still  knew  their  foulness,  gnashing  their  teeth  with  rage  at 
)keir  »wm  depravity ;  see  kow  every  thing  became  vernal— 


A  THINKER  OF  THE  YEAR  OF  GRiiE,  .  763      133 

female  honor,  the  arms  of  men,  the  suffrages  of  the  legions. 
The  commander  who  could  glut  the  revelling  multitude  with 
the  greatest  shows  was  emperor — Messalina  was  queen.  The 
race  was  staggering,  despairing ;  they  saw  the  night  coming, 
and  the  lurid  glare  of  burning  cities  lighting  on  their  way 
to  Rome  those  '  hammers  of  God,'  Alaric  and  Q-enseric. 
They  felt  that  the  impending  fate  was  the  just  punishment 
of  the  unspeakable  corruption  reigning  in  the  land,  and  they 
sought  to  drown  conscience  in  those  moral  stimulants  which 
now  horrify  the  world.  They  clamored  for  wild  beast  shows ;, 
they  rolled  on  the  seats  of  the  Amphitheatre  in  convulsive 
laughter,  when  the  slave  was  torn  to  pieces  in  the  arena  by 
the  lion  or  tiger ;  they  intoxicated  themselves  with  blood 
to  drown  despair,  and,  drunk  with  horror,  staggered  and  fell 
into  the  welcome  grave  dug  for  them  by  war,  or  pestilence, 
or  famine. 

"  Then,  on  this  worn-out  world — this  chaos  of  darkness 
and  corruption,  rose  the  sun  of  Christianity,  blessing  and 
healing.  God  took  pity  on  the  race,  and  would  not  over 
whelm  it  with  a  new  deluge ;  and  men  cast  off  their  foulness, 
abjured  their  heathen  gods,  and  and  knelt  like  children  at 
the  foot  of  the  cross. 

"  But  I  weary  you,  sir.  Every  where  the  annals  of  the 
world  show  the  god-given  instincts  of  the  race,  leading  then; 
to  seek  the  true  and  beautiful — to  embrace  love  in  place  of 
hatred.  See  how  the  northern  nations  worshipped  their  hero 
souls,  as  the  Anglo-Saxons  almost  did  their  brave  King  Ar 
thur.  They  still  yearn  for  them,  and  say  they  will  return  to 
bless  the  nations.  The  precursor  of  the  returning  god  is  still 
looked  for  in  the  northern  solitudes  by  the  rude  islanders — and 
Arthur,  the  middle  age  believed,  would  come  again,  his  sword 
excalibur  turned  to  the  shepherd's  crook,  and  with  him  peace, 
love,  and  happiness.  Look  at  all  nations.  In  France,  see  how 
the  convulsions  of  a  thousand  years  have  proved  the  yearn 
ings  of  the  race  for  something  better,  truer,  nobler  than 
their  effete  royalty,  their  nobility,  exhausted  by  Duguesclin 
and  Bayard.  See  England,  grand  and  piteous  spectacle ! — > 
heart  of  the  modern  world,  as  she  was  the  torch,  whose  light 
glared  on  the  crumbling  props  of  old  imperial  Rome — the 
Btar  of  the  new  era.  See  England,  groaning  through  all  her 
history  with  the  fatal  incubus  of  a  privileged  class,  sucking 


134     A  TS1NKER  OF  THE  YEAR  Of  GRACE,  1763. 

np  all  offices  of  profit  or  distinction ;  a  king,  whose  person  il 
sacred — who  can  do  no  wrong.  Sec  her  still  seeking  for  the 
true,  the  pure,  the  just;  see  those  men  of  England  plunging  into 
war  and  blood  to  find  the  jewel — beheading  the  king  in  the 
name  of  justice-— embracing  puritanism,  because  it  clad  itself 
in  the  robes  of  truth  and  purity — returning  to  their  king, 
when  puritanism  became  bigotry — love,  hatred — justice,  a 
scoff — and  only  to  find  in  that  son  of  the  man  they  had  be 
headed  a  worse  curse  than  any  yet !  For  Charles  II  cursed 
the  rising  generation  with  corruption,  unbelief,  despair ;  no 
longer  levying  tonnage  like  his  father — only  destroying  the 
honor  of  families ;  no  longer  holding  down  the  nation  with 
a  rod  of  iron — only  inaugurating  that  horrible  comedy  of  the 
Restoration,  which  made  all  that  is  good  contemptible — the 
honor  of  men,  the  fidelity  of  wives,  the  faith  of  humanity  in 
God.  The  poor,  struggling  nation  bargained  for  liberty  and 
toleration — they  received  bigotry  and  licentiousness.  Yes, 
yes,  sir  1  this  is  the  truth  of  that  great  revolution,  and  the 
English  people  therein  embodied  the  history  of  humanity  in 
all  ages,  every  where.  Yes,  yes !  if  any  thing  is  true,  this 
is  true — that  men  are  not  false  and  hateful,  black  from  the 
cradle,  foul  from  their  first  breath !  On  this  conviction 
alone  do  I  base  my  hopes  for  the  future  of  the  race — in' 
Europe,  America,  every  where.  That  this  land  we  live  in 
will  prove  mankind  able  to  think,  to  act,  to  rule,  above  all, 
to  love,  I  have  a  conviction  which  nothing  can  deprive  me  of. 
The  old  world  totters  ;  she  is  diseased,  and  though  this  dis 
ease  may  demand  two  hundred  years  to  eat  its  way  to  the 
heart,  yet  it  will  finally  attack  the  vital  part,  and  all  will 
crumble  into  dust.  The  new  world  lies  bathed  in  the  fresh 
light  of  the  new  age :  here  will  the  heart  of  man  vindicate 
its  purity;  here  the  tiger  will  lie  down,  the  serpent  no 
longer  hiss ;  here,  I  feel  that  God  will  accomplish  the  po 
litical  regeneration  of  humanity,  proving  the  eternal  truth 
of  these  poor  words  I  have  uttered  I  " 

The  thinker  paused,  and  leaning  his  brows  on  his  hand, 
seemed  to  be  buried  in  thought.  The  stranger  was  also 
silent,  either  from  conviction  or  in  order  that  he  might  mar- 
•hal  t'S  thoughts  for  the  struggle  of  intellects.  But  if 
this  last  were  the  reason  of  his  silence,  he  was  dcomed  to  dis 
appointment. 


WARLIKE  PROCLAMATION  PROM  THE  SQUIRE.         .  35 

His  companion  rose  and  said : 

"  I  fear  I  have  wearied  you,  sir,  and  fear  still  more  that 
you  will  think  it  discourteous  in  me  to  leave  you,  after  thus 
taking  up  our  whole  interview  in  talking  myself.  But  I 
have  just  recalled  a  business  engagement  at  this  hour — the 
clock  has  just  struck." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  man  in  the  red  cloak,  who  did 
not  seem  greatly  put  out  by  these  words,  "  I  cannot  think 
hard  of  that.  Your  ideas,  sir,  have  found  in  me  an  atten 
tive  listener,  and  if  I  led  you  to  suppose  that  I  believed 
nothing  good  could  come  out  of  human  nature,  I  miscon- 
veyed  my  meaning.  Let  us  part,  then,  for  the  present — we 
shall  meet  again,  as  my  stay  here  will  be  prolonged  for  a 
week  or  two  longer,  and  I  count  upon  seeing  you  again.  I 
do  not  fear  a  disappointment.  We  shall  come  together  often 
in  the  future,  I  feel  a  conviction." 

His  companion  bowed  his  head  in  token  of  willingness 
and  assent,  and  looking  at  the  door,  said : 

"  Your  room  is  No.  7,  is  it  not?  " 

"  Yes — that  one  opposite  is  occupied  by  a  young  gentle 
man  from  the  neighborhood ;  and  that  one  next  to  me  by  the 
young  actress,  Beatrice  Hallam,  I  believe.  Mr.  Effingham 
seems  to  be  her  very  good  friend." 

"  Effingham  !  "  exclaimed  his  companion. 

"  Yes,  he  has  been  an  inmate  of  this  tavern  for  two  or 
three  days — don't  mistake  and  enter  his  room  for  mine." 

Charles  Waters  could  only  bow  his  head  :  and  turning 
away  from  the  man  in  the  red  cloak,  he  went  in  silence  down 
the  stairs.  The  house  seemed  to  stifle  him  ;  and  when  he 
reached  the  open  air  he  seemed  suddenly  to  revive,  for  his 
face  was  suffused  with  blood. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

WARLIKE  PROCLAMATION  FEOM  THE  SQUIML 

JUST  as  Charles  Waters  left  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  while 
the  stranger  was  still  looking  after  him,  with  a  curious  ex 
pression  upon  his  finely-moulded  lips,  the  door  of  No.  7 


.  36  WARLIKE    PROCLAMATION    FROM    TflE    SQU1H*. 

opened,  and  Mr.  Champ  Effinghara  issued  from  it.  Th« 
young  gentleman,  who  had  just  been  refreshing  himself 
with  a  cup  of  chocolate,  served  to  him  in  bed — was  clad  with 
his  usual  elegance  and  richness,  and  for  a  moment  his  eye 
dwelt  on  the  coarsely-dressed  stranger,  who  stood  with  the 
knob  of  the  door  in  his  hand,  gazing,  as  we  have  said,  after 
Charles  Waters.  The  man  in  the  red  cloak  surveyed  him 
with  great  calmness,  and  some  curiosity.  An  imaginative 
spectator  might  have  fancied  them  the  representatives  of  the 
old  world  and  the  new — the  past  and  the  future — the  court 
and  the  backwoods.  Mr.  Effingham  looked  every  inch  the 
gentleman  and  courtier.  The  drop  curls  of  his  powdered 
peruke  reposed  ambrosially  on  his  clear  pale  cheek,  his  lace 
ruffles  at  bosom  and  wrist  were  of  spotless  purity,  his  sur- 
coat  of  cut  velvet,  with  its  chased  gold  buttons,  just  lifted 
up  the  point  of  his  richly  ornamented  sword,  and  his  waist 
coat,  silk  stockings,  cocked-hat,  and  jewelled  hands,  com 
pleted  the  vivid  and  perfect  contrast  between  himself  and 
the  rude-looking,  coarsely  clad  stranger.  Plainly  the  court 
and  the  wilds,  Europe  and  America — stood  face  to  face. 

The  man  in  the  red  cloak  having  apparently  satisfied 
his  curiosity,  made  a  slight  and  very  awkward  bow,  which 
Mr.  Effingham  returned  with  negligent  carelessness,  and 
then  re-entered  his  chamber,  with  a  smile  on  his  grim  fea 
tures.  Mr.  Effingham  descended. 

The  reader  will  recollect  that  he  had  been  at  the  tavern 
now  for  some  days  : — the  manager  had  regularly  enrolled 
him  as  a  member  of  the  "  Virginia  Company  of  Comedians,'1 
and  availing  himself  of  the  privileges  of  his  membership, 
Mr.  Effingham  had  met  Beatrice  daily,  in  the  theatre,  in 
the  tavern,  every  where.  He  was  no  longer  a  chance  visitor, 
an  occasional  torment  to  be  borne  with,  and  endured  patient 
ly,  in  consideration  of  his  going  away  soon ;  he  was  now  her 
shadow,  and  in  the  young  girl's  own  words,  he  "  drove  away 
all  the  sunshine  from  her  life."  At  rehearsal  she  had  seen 
daily  his  reckless  and  mockiug  smile,  glittering  and  gloomy, 
follow  her  every  movement — at  the  inn,  when  he  condescend 
ed  to  appear  at  the  common  table,  she  had  been  transfixed 
by  his  burning  glances — in  all  places  and  at  all  times  he 
had  obtruded  himself  with  his  ironical  and  yet  sombre 
•mile ;  a  smile  which  seemed  to  say  audibly,  "  You  defied 


WARLIKE    PROCLAMATION    FROM    THE    SQUIK.B.  137 

me,  scorned  me,  thought  yourself  more  than  a  match  for  me 
and  I  have  foiled  you  and  conquered  you,  by  superior  will 
and  reckless  carelessness." 

Whether  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  was  conscious  of  Bea 
trice's  unhappiness — of  Mr.  Effingham's  treatment  of  his 
daughter — we  are  not  able  to  say.  At  least,  he  took  no 
notice  of  it,  and  was  always  ready  to  echo  the  young  man's 
jests,  and  drink  with  him  as  long,  and  as  deeply  as  he 
desired. 

"  At  the  Hall  the  storm  was  rising,  and  ere  long  it  was 
destined  to  fall  upon  the  devoted  head  of  Mr.  Effingham. 
Miss  Alethea  had  deeply  regretted  her  violence,  and  earnest 
ly  prayed  for  him,  and  that  he  might  return  to  them  again. 
She  saw  too  late  that  her  injudicious  words  had  driven  him 
away,  and  this  she  confessed  to  her  father,  with  tears ;  but 
that  bluff  gentleman  had  pish'd  and  pshaw'd,  and  told  hei 
that  she  was  too  soft-hearted,  and  that  she  was  not  to  blame 
— he  would  see  to  the  matter  1  The  rest  of  the  household 
soon  found  out  the  dreadful  fact  that  Mr.  Champ  Effingham 
had  abandoned  his  home  for  the  young  actress,  and  the  very 
negroes,  following  the  wont  of  Africans  in  all  years,  discussed 
and  commented  on  "  Master  Champ's  "  wild  conduct.  Will 
reflected  upon  the  matter,  with  a  dreadful  feeling  of  alarm, 
and  fear,  and  admiration,  for  the  rebel — and  Kate  sorrowed 
in  quiet,  wiping  her  eyes  frequently,  as  she  bent  over  Carlo, 
and  sometimes  getting  up  from  the  table,  and  hurrying  out, 
with  no  imaginable  cause  for  going  away,  unless  she  had 
tears  to  hide.  She  loved  Mr.  Champ  Effingham  dearly — 
much  more  fondly,  I  am  compelled  to  add,  than  my  respected 
ancestor  deserved — and  wept  for  him,  and  every  night  and 
morning  joined  her  hands  together  and  asked  God  to  bless 
him,  wetting  the  pillow  all  the  time  with  her  tears.  As  1 
have  said,  this  was  by  no  means  the  spirit  of  the  squire :  he 
was  indignant,  he  felt  outraged,  he  knew  now  all  about  the 
matter,  and  felt  excessive  dissatisfaction  at  Mr.  Effingham's 
conduct,  as  he  called  it.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  his 
own  youthful  career  had  been  by  no  means  immaculate,  and 
without  regard  to  Mr.  Champ's  peculiarities  of  mental 
organization,  he  determined  to  bring  the  rebel  to  subjection." 

Thus  far,  the  MS.  from  which  those  events  were  drawn ; 
the  extract  may  serve  to  explain  the  appearance  of  a  mounted 
fervant  at  the  door  of  the  Raleigh,  where  Mr.  Effingham 


138 

descended,  after  his  meeting  with  the  stranger.  It  was  Tom, 
who,  with  many  smiles,  presented  to  his  master  a  missive, 
directed,  in  a  large,  firm  hand  : 

"  To  Mr.  Champ  Effingham,  at  the  Raleigh  Tavern 
Williamsburg." 

Mr.  Effingham  frowned,  tore  open  the  letter,  and  read  it, 
with  a  flush  upon  his  brow,  which  froze  the  smiles  of  the 
shining  African.  Having  gone  through  it,  he  crumpled  it 
furiously  in  his  hand,  scowled  upon  the  negro,  hesitated,  in 
evident  doubt  as  to  what  course  he  should  pursue,  then 
bidding  the  servant  wait,  hurried  to  his  room. 

The  letter  was  in  these  words : 

u  EffingJiam  Hall,  Thursday  Forenoon. 
"  MY  DEAR  CHAMP — I  have  heard  of  your  conduct,  sir, 
and  have  no  intention  of  being  made  the  laughing-stock  of 
my  neighbors,  as  the  father  of  a  fool.  No,  sir  !  ^  I  decline 
being  advised  and  pitied,  and  talked  about  and 'to  by  the 
country  on  your  account.  I  know  why  you  have  left  the 
Hall,  sir,  and  taken  up  your  residence  in  town.  Alethea 
has  told  me  how  you  insulted  her,  and  flouted  her  well-meant 
advice,  and  because  she  entreated  you,  as  your  sister,  not  to 
go  near  that  young  woman  again,  tossed  from  her,  and  fell 
into  your  present  courses.  I  tell  you  again,  sir,  that  I  will 
not  endure  your  conduct.  I  won't  have  the  parson  condol 
ing,  and  shaking  his  head,  and  sighing,  and,  when  he  comes 
in  the  Litany  to  pray  for  deliverance  from  all  inordinate  and 
sinful  affections — from  all  the  deceits  of  the  world,  the 
flesh,  and  the  devil — have  him  looking  at  the  Hall  pew, 
and  groaning,  until  every  body  understands  his  meaning. 
No,  sir  1  If  you  make  yourself  a  fool  about  that  common 
actress,  you  shall  not  drag  us  into  it.  And  Clare  Lee  ! 
have  you  no  regard  for  her  feelings  ?  Damn  my  blood,  sir  ! 
I  am  ashamed  of  you.  Come  away  directly.  If  you  are 
guilty  of  any  thing  unworthy  toward  that  young  woman,  I 
will  strike  your  name  from  the  family  Bible,  and  never  look 
upon  your  face  again.  Remember,  sir;  and  you  won't  be 
fool  enough  to  marry  her,  I  hope.  Try  it,  sir,  and  see  the 
consequence.  Pah  !  a  common  actress  for  my  daughter — • 
the  wife  of  the  representative  of  the  house  of  Effingham, 
after  my  death.  'Sdeah,  sir  1  it  is  intolerable,  abominable  ; 
•ad  I  command  you  to  return  at  once,  and  never  look  upon 


WARLIKE    PROCLAMATION    FROM    THE    SQUIRE.  139 

that  young  woman  again.  For  shame,  sir.  Am  I,  at  my 
age,  to  be  made  a  laughing-stock  of,  to  be  jeered  at  by  the 
common  people,  at  the  county  court,  as  the  father  of  the 
young  man  that  played  the  fool  with  the  actress  ?  No,  sir. 
Leave  that  place,  and  come  and  do  what  you  are  expected  to 
do,  called  on  to  do — take  Clare  Lee  to  the  Governor's  ball. 
I  inclose  your  invitation.  Leave  that  woman  and  her  artful 
seductions.  Reflect,  sir,  and  do  your  duty  to  Clare,  like  a 
gentleman.  If  it  is  necessary,  I  repeat,  sir,  I  command  you 
to  return,  and  never  see  that  girl  again. 

"  EFFINGHAM." 

Mr.  Champ  Effingham  read  this  letter  with  those  mani 
festations  of  wrath  and  indignation  which  we  have  described, 
and  as  we  have  said,  hurried  to  his  apartment,  bidding  the 
servant  wait. 

Once  by  himself,  he  tore  his  unfortunate  frill  furiously, 
and  shook  his  clenched  fist  at  the  representation  of  himself 
in  the  mirror. 

"  Dictation  !  I  am  a  child  !  "  he  said.  "  I  am  to  be 
whipped  in,  like  a  hound,  because  I  choose  to  come  and 
spend  a  few  days  in  town  here,  and  to  be  ordered  about,  as 
if  I  were  a  negro.  I  am,  forsooth,  to  come  back  to  the  Hall, 
and  humbly  beg  Alethea's  pardon,  for  leaving  her  so  ab 
ruptly,  and  hear  the  servants  tittering  behind  me,  and  go, 
like  a  milk-and-water  girl,  to  escort  Miss  Clare  Lee  to  the 
Governor's  ball  1  Curse  me,  if  I  will  submit  to  be  lashed 
into  obedieno  -.  like  a  dog,  and  Miss  Clare  Lee  may  find 
some  other  escort.  I  will  go  to  that  ball  with  Beatrice  Hal- 
lam,  and  I  will  act  next  week." 

With  which  words,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  : 

"  I  have  received  your  letter,  sir,  and  decline  returning 
to  Effingham  Hall,  or  being  dictated  to.  I  have  passed  iny 
majority,  and  am  my  own  master.  No  one  on  earth  shall 
make  a  slave  of  me.  I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

"  CHAMP  EFFINGHAM." 

Mr.  Effingham  read  this  note  over,  folded  it,  sealed  it 
deliberately,  stamping  the  wax  with  his  coat  of  arms,  and 
summoning  a  servant,  ordered  him  to  deliver  it  to  the  negro 
at  the  door.  Then  rising,  with  a  mocking  laugh,  he  went 
toward  Beatrice's  room- 


140  MR.    EFF1NGHAM    WISHES    TO    ESCORT 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

MB.  EFFINGHAM  BEQUESTS  THAT  HE  MAT  HAVE  THE  PLEASUB1 
OF  ESCORTING  MI38  HALLAM  TO  THE  BALL. 

MR.  EFFINGHAM  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  young  girl'a 
apartment,  but  being  in  doubt  whether  he  heard  her  voice, 
was  about  to  retire.  He  decided,  however,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  to  enter,  and  opening  the  door,  which  yielded  to 
his  push,  found  himself  in  presence  of  Beatrice.  She  was 
sitting  at  the  window,  and  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand, 
which  lay  upon  the  sill.  She  did  not  move  when  Mr.  Effing- 
ham  entered,  and  a  second  glance  proved  to  him  that  she 
was  asleep. 

For  a  moment,  Mr.  Effingham  gazed  at  the  beautiful 
head  bent  down,  the  forehead  moist  with  the  dews  of  sleep, 
the  small  hand  hanging  down,  from  which  the  volume  of 
Shakspeare,  she  had  been  reading,  had  fallen  to  the  floor. 
None  of  these  things  escaped  him,  and  for  a  moment  he 
paused,  silent,  motionless,  his  eyes  becoming  softer,  his 
brow  less  gloomy.  Then  the  shadow  returned  ;  thought, 
like  a  hound,  again  struck  the  trail,  for  a  moment  lost,  and 
the  eye  of  the  young  man  assumed  its  habitual  fire,  his  lips 
their  curl  of  scornful  and  gloomy  listlessness. 

Beatrice  stirred  in  her  sleep  and  awoke ;  it  might  have 
been  supposed  that  the  glittering  eye  fixed  on  her  face,  bad 
not  permitted  the  sleeper  to  continue  insensible  to  the  pre 
sence  of  the  visitor.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  sat  up, 
placing  her  hand,  with  an  instinctive  movement,  on  her  dis 
ordered  hair. 

Mr.  Eflingham  approached  her.  "  I  knocked,"  he  said, 
negligently,  "  but  was  uncertain  whether  you  answered  or 
not,  so  I  entered.  How  is  Miss  Beatrice  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  well,  sir,"  she  said,  resigning  herself  to  he* 
fate. 

"Not  well?" 

"  I  am  worn  out,  sir." 

"  Worn  out  ?" 

"  Yea,  sir ;  the  exceedingly  late  hours  I  have  kept  IaU 
ty,  have  injured  m».M 


MISS   HALL  AM    TO    THE   BALL.  14 1 

"  All  imaginary  ;  you  are  accustomed  to  them." 

Beatrice  made  no  reply  to  these  words,  which  Mr.  Effing- 
ham  uttered  with  careless  indifference  as  he  sat  down. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  theatre,  this  morning  ?"  he  added. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Rehearsal  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  that  wore  you  out.  That  fellow,  Pugsby,  is 
enough  to  put  any  one  to  sleep,  he's  so  somniferous." 

"  He  did  not  come." 

"  And  so  after  rehearsal,  you  came  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  went  to  sleep  ?" 

"  I  tried  to  study,  but  could  not." 

"  True ;  there  is  your  Shakspeare  on  the  floor." 

Mr.  Effingham  picked  the  volume  up  with  a  yawn,  and 
politely  restored  it  to  the  young  girl. 

"  By  the  by,"  he  said,  "  when  shall  we  appear  together  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  Come,  now ;  wouldn't  you  prefer  me  as  your  vis-a-vis 
in  acting  to  Pugsby  ?  " 

"  It  is  perfectly  indifferent  to  me  whom  I  play  with,  sir." 

"  Amiable,  at  least !  But  we  are  going  to  play  together 
soon." 

"  Are  we,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,  the  duchess  1  By  heaven,  you  must 
have  been  born  in  a  court,  or  you  never  could  have  caught 
the  imperial  air  so  perfectly  1  '  Are  we,  sir  ?  '  "  continued 
Mr.  Effingham,  mimicking  the  frigid  tones  of  the  young 
girl's  voice ;  "  the  devil  1  you  carry  acting  into  private 
life  ! " 

"  No,  sir ;  I  am  not  sufficiently  fond  of  it." 

"  You  hate  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  like  playing." 

"  You  would  prefer  quiet  domestic  happiness,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then,  marry  me,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  perfect 
coolness,  "  I  have  half  ruined  myself  for  you." 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

"  Your  great  pleasure  in  life  is  to  scoff  at  me,  Mr.  Ef 
fingham,"  she  said,  calmly. 


142  MR.    EFFINGHAM    WISHES    TO    ESCORT 

"  No,  by  heaven  1  There's  my  hand.  Take  it.  I  am 
just  in  the  mood  to-day  to  follow  any  whim  which  seizes 
me." 

Beatrice  was  silent. 

"  You  won't  accept  me,  then  ? "  said  Mr.  Effingham. 
"  Well,  that  is  wrong  in  you.  Effingham  Hall  yonder  comes 
to  me,  and  you  might  indulge  your  dreams  of  rank  and  sta 
tion  to  any  extent,  as  we  are  of  tolerably  good  family." 

"  I  have  no  such  dreams,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  your  dreams  of  domestic  happiness,  but 
now  discoursed  of." 

Beatrice  was  again  silent ;  and  Mr.  Effingham  burst  into 
a  harsh  laugh. 

"  Ah,  ah  1 "  he  said,  "  you  don't  reply,  but  I  know  very 
well  what  the  expression  of  your  ladyship's  face  signifies. 
You  mean,  Madam  Beatrice,  that  you  would  have  very  little 
domestic  happiness  as  the  wife  of  reprobate  Mr.  Champ 
Effingham !  Hey  ?  Come,  now,  let  us  chat  like  tender 
friends,  as  we  are.  Is  not  that  your  thought  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  we  should  be  happy  together,  sir  ?  " 

"Why?" 

"  We  are  not  congenial." 

"  Bah  I  we  were  cut  out  for  each  other." 

"  No,  sir ;  indeed  we  were  not." 

"  We  were  I  Come,  now,  I'll  prove  it  We  are  both 
hypocritical " 

"  Sir  1 " 

"  Both  exceedingly  worldly  and  unamiable " 

"  Mr.  Effingham  !  " 

"  And  we  love  each  other  devotedly.  Could  better 
matches  be  found  ?  " 

"  You  are  in  a  bitter  humor  this  morning,  sir,"  said 
Beatrice. 

"  I  ?  Not  in  the  least,  as  I  believe  I  have  replied  to 
similar  charges  on  previous  occasions.  I  never  was  in  more 
charming  spirits.  I  have  just  had  a  little  correspondence 
which  raised  my  spirits  amazingly.  Just  fancy  my  respected 
father  writing  me  word  that  if  I  did  not  give  you  up,  never 
Bee  you  again,  the  paternal  malediction  would  descend. 
Think  of  it." 

"  Oh,  sir  ! — did  your  father  write  that  about  me  ?  "  said 
Beatrice,  suddenly  losin^  her  frigid  indifference. 


MISS    HALLAM    TO    THE    BilX.  143 

«Yes.» 

'*  Advising  you  to  come  away  from  this  place  ?  " 

"  Advising  ?  not  in  the  least ! — commanding  me." 

"  Oh,  sir  1  then  obey  that  command !  Kecollect  he  is 
your  father  !  Remember  that  you  will  cause  yourself  to  be 
talked  about,  and  I  shall  be  the  cause  of  all  this ! — I  shall 
be  the  means  of  distressing  your  father  !  Oh,  sir,  abandon 
me;  leave  the  company  which  you  have  so  rashly  united 
yourself  to ;  do  not  cause  me  the  misery  of  standing  between 
father  and  son  !  Be  reconciled,  sir  I  Oh,  do  not  stay  here, 
sir ! " 

Beatrice  had  risen,  in  the  excess  of  her  emotion,  and 
stood  before  the  young  man  now  pleading  for  mercy — mercy 
for  himself!  Her  eyes  were  full  of  earnestness  and  emo 
tion,  her  words  impassioned  and  tearful,  her  hands  clasped 
before  her  in  an  attitude  of  what  seemed  irresistible  entreaty. 

Mr.  Effiugham  leaned  back,  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
mocking  smile. 

"  You  are  really  exceedingly  handsome,"  he  said,  "  and 
upon  my  word  the  gentlemen,  and  even  the  ladies  of  the 
colony,  might  show  some  cause  for  not  liking  you,  and  think 
ing  it  very  naughty  in  me  to  come  near  you.  Talk  about 
me  ! — you  think  my  infatuation  for  you  will  make  me  talked 
about !  My  dear  Miss  Beatrice,  don't  be  hypocritical.  You 
know  well  that  I  am  at  present  the  most  interesting  topic  of 
conversation  in  the  colony  of  Virginia.  I  fancy  I  can  hear  the 
tittering — the  delightful  gossip  about  my  unworthy  self,  every 
where — here,  in  the  upper  country,  south  side,  every  where. 
Didn't  you  see  how  they  stared  at  me,  night  after  night,  in 
the  theatre  ?  And  some  of  the  moral  and  irreproachable 
young  ladies  would  no  longer  return  my  bows,  if  their  re 
spected  parents  would  permit  them  to  quarrel  with  so  illus 
trious  a  nobleman  as  myself.  Talked  about  ?  Bah  1  let  us 
be  easy,  madam ;  we  are  both  the  scoff  of  Virginia !  " 

"  But  your  family,  sir,"  cried  Beatrice,  "  much  as  you 
affect  to  despise  general  opinion — " 

"  My  family  will  not  care  much  for  me — a  little  worry, 
and  when  the  matter  ends  in  some  diabolical  way,  some  an 
noyance  :  that  is  all !  Come,  don't  talk  of  my  family — 01 
of  any  of  these  matters.  Let  us  speak  of  acting." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  I  am  sick.  You  have  made  me  feel  so  badlj 
by  what  you  have  said." 


144  MR.    EFFINGHAM    WISHES    TO    ESCORT,    ETC. 

Mr.  Effingham's  laugh  was  the  perfection  of  recklessness 
and  scorn. 

"  Bah  !  "  he  said,  <;  let  us  talk  of  business  matters.  I 
am  going  to  act  Benedick  soon,  and  you  shall  play  the  par* 
of  your  namesake.  Can  you  act  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir — but  I  do  not  wish  to  again,"  said  Beatrice, 
sitting  down,  overcome  with  emotion.  . 

"  You  must  not  have  a  voice  in  the  matter — it  suiis  me, 
madam,  and  with  all  possible  respect,  I  shall  make  my  debut 
in  '  Much  Ado  about  Nothing.'  What  an  exceedingly 
apposite  piece  to  appear  in  !  It  will  be  a  practical  epigram 
upon  public  sentiment — the  very  title  1 " 

"  Will  you  really  act,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  that  will  I !  nothing  can  prevent  me." 

"  Then  I  am  the  most  unhappy  of  created  beings,"  said 
Beatrice,  tearfully.  "  Oh  !  to  be  the  occasion  of  this  alter 
cation  between  father  and  son  ! " 

"  That  is  all  arranged  :  and  all  will  go  on  well  now.  We 
will  have  a  delightful  time  at  the  ball." 

"  What  ball,  sir  ?  " 

"  Have  you  not  heard  ?  Why,  the  Governor's.  I  am 
going  to  take  you.  You  will  then  have  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  all  the  gentry  of  this  noble  colony." 

Beatrice  looked  at  the  young  man  with  astonished  eyes. 

"  You  would  escort  me,  then,  sir  ?  "  she  asked  coldly. 

"  Certainly." 

"  You  must  not,  sir." 

"  I  will." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  will  not  go  !  I  cannot  go,  sir — I  am  not  in 
vited,  sir." 

"  Pshaw  !  I  am,  and  of  course  I  can  bring  any  lady  I 
fancy." 

"  Mr.  Effingham  !  "  said  Beatrice,  wildly,  "  I  am  not  a 
lady  !  I  will  not  accompany  you,  and  be  the  occasion  of  a 
new  and  more  distressing  sorrow  to  your  family.  No,  no, 
sir — I  will  not !  "  and  the  young  girl's  face  flushed. 

"  Well — here's  my  respected  friend  and  manager  : — good 
morning,  Hallam,"  he  added  carelessly,  as  that  gentleman 
entered,  smiling  and  rosy ;  "  here,  I  have  been  talking  to 
Madam  Beatrice  about  the  ball." 

"  At  the  Governor's,  sir  ?  " 


IN   WHICH    A    PISTOL    FIGURES.  145 

«  Yes." 

"  He  wants  me  to  go,  father,  and  I  must  not,"  said  Bea 
trice,  covering  her  face. 

Hallam  stared ;  and  his  incredulous  glance  asked  the 
young  man  if  he  really  thought  of  such  a  thing.  This  mean 
ing  was  so  plain,  that  Mr.  Effingham  burst  into  laughter, 
and  said  : 

"  Yes,  Hallam  !  I  am  going  to  escort  Madam  to  the  ball, 
and  be  her  most  devoted  cavalier.  Now  talk  to  her  about  it, 
and  remove  her  scruples — I  must  go  and  take  a  look  at  the 
streets  of  this  great  town." 

And  bowing,  he  went  out. 

The  scene  which  ensued  between  the  manager  and  his 
daughter  is  not  one  of  those  which  we  take  pleasure  in  de 
scribing.  Art  cannot  compass  all  things.  Hallam  saw  the 
means  of  attaching  the  young  man  to  Beatrice  for  ever  by 
this  ball,  for  his  appearance  there  with  her  would  be  regarded 
as  his  public  defiance  of  all  the  powers  of  society  :  and  this 
social  prejudice,  he  felt  convinced,  was  all  which  prevented 
Mr.  Effingham  from  marrying  Beatrice.  It  was  necessary 
thus  to  overcome  her  scruples,  and  he  did  overcome  them. 
Beatrice,  at  the  end  of  an  hour  of  passionate  pleading,  fell 
back,  weak,  nerveless,  overcome.  She  had  consented  to  go  to 
the  ball. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IN   WHICH   A   PISTOL   FIGURES. 

MR.  EFFINGHAM  passed  the  whole  of  the  day  succeeding  this 
interview  in  a  state  of  mind  more  easily  imagined  than  de 
scribed.  The  reader  will  not  have  failed  to  perceive  that  his 
reckless,  and  scornful  indifference,  his  mocking  laughter,  were 
but  the  mask  which  concealed  a  profound  emotion  rf  pain 
and  depression.  Proud,  headstrong,  and  passionate,  he  had 
nevertheless  experienced  a  sinking  of  the  heart  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  violent  passion,  on  reading  the  bluff  gentleman's 
letter — and  ill-advised  as  that  letter  undoubtedly  was,  he 
already  bitterly  regretted  the  tone  of  his  reply.  The  conse 
quence  of  these  conflicting  emotions  was  frightful : — he  tossed 
about,  gesticulated,  astounded  the  members  of  the  Virginia 
7 


146  IK    WHICH   A   PISTOL   FIGURES. 

company  of  Comedians  by  replying  to  the  simplest  observa 
tions  with  insult,  and  betrayed  every  indication  of  a  mind  ill 
at  ease,  and  charged  with 

"  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart." 

His  brow  was  gloomy,  his  eye  fiery,  his  walk  hasty  and 
by  starts.  So  the  day  passed,  and  the  morning  of  the  next. 

In  the  afternoon  he  went  to  his  apartment,  and  sitting 
down,  leaned  his  head  gloomily  on  his  hand.  Where  would 
all  this  end  ?  That  abyss  he  had  imagined  to  be  awaiting 
him,  after  the  first  interview  he  had  passed  through  with 
the  young  woman,  now  seemed  to  open  visibly  before  him. 
He  had  left  his  home — defied  his  friends — abandoned  all 
that  made  life  tranquil  and  happy — for  what,  for  whom  ? 
For  a  woman  who  scorned  him,  and  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  conceal  that  scorn ;  for  a  beautiful  demon,  who  met  all 
bis  advances  with  indifference  or  disdain,  and,  strong  in  her 
weakness,  defied  him  with  looks  and  words.  If  he  had 
abandoned  all  that  happy  life  for  some  angel  of  love  and 
purity,  whose  heart  was  a  treasure  grand  enough  to  console 
him  for  all  the  blasts  of  obloquy  or  the  winds  of  scorn,  there 
might  have  existed  some  reason  which  would  have  calmed 
him.  But  no!  she  hated  him — scorned  him — could  not 
bear  his  presence  1 

He  rose,  and  with  clenched  hands  stood  looking  at  his 
sneering  and  unhappy  visage  in  the  mirror  over  the  fireplace. 
There  he  stood,  young,  handsome,  graceful;  clad  in  the 
costume  appertaining  to  his  rank  of  gentleman;  the  brow 
untanned  by  sun  or  wind,  the  hand  white  and  jewelled,  not 
brown,  and  hard  and  knotty  with  rude  toil ;  every  thing  in 
the  image  reflected  from  the  mirror  betrayed  the  enviable 
position  in  the  world  which  the  young  man  sustained.  The 
plain  gold  ring  upon  his  finger  was  the  gift  of  Clare  years 
ago,  when  tt  ey  were  sweethearts ;  the  beautiful  cravat  he 
wore,  with  its  gold  and  silver  flowers,  was  worked  by  the 
child  at  the  Hall ;  the  diamond  pin  in  his  bosom  was  a  birth 
day  present  from  his  father — lastly,  the  snuffbox  peeping 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket  had  been  given  him  by  Lord 
Botetourt  when  he  had  admired  it  one  day  in  England. 

All  this  flashed  through  the  young  man's  mind ;  and 
then,  with  a  mental  effort  as  rapid  and  comprehensive,  he 


IN  WHICH  A  PISTOL  P..:  URES.  147 

surveyed  his  future.  What  would  that  future  be  ?  Young, 
high  born,  wealthy,  heir  to  the  estate  of  Effingham  and  re 
presentative  of  that  stately  house,  all  honors  and  pleasures 
were  open  to  him,  did  he  but  sit  down  and  wait  quietly.  No 
exertion  was  necessary — the  future  was  assured.  Would 
that  be  his  future  ?  Would  he  go  on  in  life  surrounded  by 
friends  and  tender  relatives — gladdened  by  the  smiles  of 
true-souled  companions,  the  tender  love  of  gentle  woman — 
and  so  passing  his  early  youth,  arrive  at  a  middle  age  of  in 
fluence  and  honor ;  his  old  age  finally  to  come  to  him,  bright 
with  all  that  makes  it  fair  and  attractive — "  as  honor,  love, 
obedience,  troops  of  friends  ? "  Would  he  keep  up  the 
honors  of  his  ancient  house — be  a  worthy  representative  of 
his  honorable  name ;  would  he  find  in  that  gentle  girl  whom 
every  one  loved,  the  companion  of  his  joys  and  sorrows,  the 
light  illuminating  his  existence  to  its  close  ? 

Was  this  his  future,  he  asked  himself,  with  a  bitter  curl 
of  the  distorted  lip — could  this  be  his  destiny  in  life  ?  No ! 
that  was  not  for  him ;  he  had  made  his  election — thrown 
away  the  goblet  of  limpid  and  healthful  water,  to  grasp  the 
bowl  foaming  with  its  fiery  and  poisonous  draught.  The 
Circe  had  taken  him  captive — he  was  no  longer  human  ;  no 
longer  had  any  power  over  his  will;  felt  that  he  wo  aid  not, 
if  he  could,  abandon  the  shore  upon  which  he  had  cast  him 
self  away.  No  !  that  bright  and  happy  future  was  not  for 
him — he  had  forfeited  it.  Effingham  Hall  was  closed  to 
him — Clare  despised  or  pitied  him — friends  had  deserted 
him — he  had  stopped  at  the  Siren  isles,  and  never  would 
sail  forth  again  for  ever.  The  name  of  Effingham  would 
die  if  he  had  to  uphold  it — he  would  be  stricken  from  the 
annals  of  his  house — nothing  remaining  of  his  name  and 
life  but  a  sad  and  shameful  recollection  1 

Again  he  gazed  steadily  at  his  sneering  and  unhappy 
image  in  the  mirror — upon  his  pale  cheeks,  fallen  away  so 
quickly,  upon  his  bloodshot  eyes,  his  colorless,  mocking  lips, 
and  the  point  to  which  his  thoughts  had  carried  him,  was 
reflected  in  his  visage  so  faithfully  that  a  groan  issued  from 
his  inmost  heart.  Then  his  eye  fell  upon  a  pistol,  lying  on 
the  table,  and  he  took  it  up  and  gazed  gloomily  at  it : — a 
harsher,  more  mocking  smile,  wreathed  his  proud  lip,  and, 
cocking  the  weapon,  he  murmured  the  first  words  of  th« 
soliloquy  in  Hamlet. 


148  IN   WHICH   A    PISTOL   FIGURES.. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  know,  now,  what  my  lord  Hamlet 
meant,  when  he  asked  that  question  of  his  soul : 

•Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  stings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them  1 ' " 

Then,  looking  with  gloomy  curiosity  upon  the  murderous 
instrument,  he  said,  with  a  sigh  which  resembled  a  groan : 
"  Yes,  now  I  understand  those  words : 

"  —  To  die  !  to  sleep  I 

No  more! — and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heartache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to  ?  '  Tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished  1 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love  1 '  " 

There  he  stopped,  with  an  expression  painfully  affecting  ; 
and,  sitting  down,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  was 
silent  for  a  time.  Then,  the  hand  was  taken  away,  and  the 
head  rose  again — and  on  the  lips  the  same  mocking  smile 
played  with  terrible  meaning.  He  looked  again  at  the  pistol, 
and,  with  a  sneer,  placed  the  muzzle  to  his  forehead. 

"  It  is  plain  that  I  am  a  comedian,"  he  said,  bitterly  ;  "I 
go  for  authority  to  plays  !  Well,  now,  if  I  were  to  play  the 
tragedy  to  the  end — imitate  the  Moor !  Is  it  not  easy  ? 
This  little  instrument  ends  all,  at  once !  " — and  his  finger 
touched  the  trigger. 

Suddenly  a  tap  at  the  door  startled  him,  and  hastily  un 
cocking  the  pistol,  he  thrust  it  into  his  bosom,  and  said, 
harshly  and  gloomily,  "  Come  in  !  " 

The  door  opened  softly,  a  light  step  was  heard,  and  little 
Kate  Emngham  entered  the  apartment.  Kate,  smiling  and 
fond ;  her  fair  hair  falling  on  her  shoulders  in  long  girlish  curls ; 
a  tender,  loving  light  in  her  mild,  soft  blue  eyes ;  the  little 
hands  stretched  out  to  greet  him ;  her  face,  and  form,  and 
smile,  and  very  dress  redolent  of  home,  and  that  happiness 
which  the  weary  heart  but  now  looked  back  upon,  as  the  wrecked 
mariner  clinging  to  the  floating  mast,  about  to  be  ingulfed  in 
the  dark  waves,  launches  a  last  thought  back  to  the  sunshine 
and  pure  joy  of  his  far  inland  home  1 


HOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM'S  ROOM  WAS  ILLUMINATED. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

HOW     IE.   EFFINGHAira  ROOM  AT  THE  RALEIGH  TAVERN  WAS 
ILLUMINATED. 

IN  a  moment  the  child  was  in  his  arms,  clasped  to  his  heart. 
The  fresh,  bright-eyed  little  face — though  now  those  eyes 
were  bathed  in  dews  of  happiness — lay  on  his  bosom,  and 
two  hot  tears  from  the  dry,  weary  eyes  of  the  young  man, 
rolled  down,  and  fell  upon  the  child's  hand.  For  some 
minutes  no  word  was  uttered.  Kate  spoke  first,  and  said, 
earnestly  : 

u  Oh !  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  cousin  Champ — indeed, 
indeed,  I  am." 

"  And  I  am  as  glad  to  see  you,  Katy,"  he  said,  turning 
away  ;  but  no  longer  with  that  painful  expression  of  mock 
ery  ;  "  you  came  in  like  a  sunbeam  !  I  was  so  gloomy." 

And  again  the  poor,  weary  eyes  were  bathed  in  moisture, 
and  the  man's  tears  mingled  with  the  child's. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  how  is  it  possible  you  are 
here?" 

And  as  he  spoke,  the  young  man  caressed  fondly  the 
bright  locks  of  the  little  head. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Kate ;  "  I  just  came  by  myself.  I  was  so 
sorry,  cousin  Champ,  when  you  went  away,  and  have  been 
crying  about  it  often  since — I  couldn't  help  it.  For  you 
know  you  have  always  been  so  good  to  me.  I  couldn't  help 
loving  you  dearly,  and  crying  when  you  left  us.  Then  papa 
got  angry,  and  told  cousin  Alethea  you  had  not  done  right ; 
and  then,  when  the  parson  came,  he  abused  you,  and  papa 
quarrelled  with  him,  and  he's  going  away.  Papa  said  no  one 
should  abuse  you,  and  that  you  were  not  half  as  much  to 
blame  as  they  chose  to  say ;  and  then  went  away  to  the 
library,  and  didn't  come  back  to  tea." 

"  But,  Katy,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  turning  away,  "  this 
does  not  explain  how  you — " 

"  Oh  1  I  am  coming  to  that  at  once,  cousin  Champ.  You 
know  I  love  you  dearly — and  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  you 
were  here  all  by  yourself,  and  not  happy.  So  as  cousie 


150      HOW   MJl.    EFFINGHAM:  S    ROOM   WAS   ILLtJBHNAl«l>. 

Alethea  was  coming  to  town  in  the  chariot,  me  and  Willie 
thought  we'd  come,  too,  and  cousin  Alethea  said  we  might." 

"  Is  Alethea  in  town  ?  " 

"  Yes,  cousin  Champ  ;  she's  down  at  the  store,  buying  a 
cake  mould,  and  Willie  was  looking  for  a  new  whip.  So  I 
just  slipped  out  and  ran  up  here,  and  asked  if  you  were  here, 
of  a  gentleman — though  I  don't  know  if  he  is  a  real  gentle 
man — wearing  such  a  funny  red  cloak.  He  laughed,  and 
was  very  good,  and  said  you  had  just  gone  up  to  '  number 
6,'  and  I  came  up,  and  saw  the  figure  on  your  door,  and 
tapped." 

"  Heaven  sent  you,  Katy,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  pressing 
his  tremulous  lips  to  the  child's  forehead.  "  God  knows 
what  might  have  happened,"  he  added,  in  a  murmur. 

"  What  did  you  say,  cousin  Champ  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  dear." 

"  What  is  this  hard  thing  under  your  lace  ?  "  said  the 
child,  whose  arm  had  struck  against  the  concealed  weapon. 

"  Nothing,  nothing  1 "  he  said,  hastily.  And  rising  sud 
denly,  he  went  to  the  open  window,  and  hurled  the  pistol  to 
the  distance  of  fifty  feet.  Then  returning,  after  seeing  it 
fall  into  a  pile  of  rubbish  in  the  yard  of  the  tavern,  he  took 
the  child  in  his  arms  again,  and  leaned  his  weary  head  upon 
her  shoulder. 

"  "Sou  don't  seem  to  me  well,  cousin  Champ,"  said  Kate, 
tenderly,  and  endeavoring  with  the  tact  of  a  grown  woman, 
to  come  to  the  subject  which  she  wished  to  reach,  without 
offending  Mr.  Effingham.  "  I  don't  think  you  are  well,  in 
deed  I  don't,  and  they  can't  take  very  good  care  of  you  in 
this  place.  I  don't  like  it — it  don't  seem  clean  and  nice. 
And  then  I'm  sure  you  haven't  got  any  body  who  can  bathe 
your  forehead  as  nicely  as  I  can.  Please  come  and  go  back 
with  us,  cousin,"  added  the  child,  earnestly.  "  You  can't 
think  how  happy  it  would  make  me,  and  all — indeed  I  would 
cry  for  joy." 

"  I  can't  make  you  cry,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with 
a  fond  look. 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  laugh." 

"  I  can't  go  now." 

"  But  you  are  sick." 

"  No,  no." 


HOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM'S  ROOM  WAS  ILLUMINAIKD.     151 

"  Indeed — indeed,  you're  not  well." 

"  Perfectly,  dear  Katy — but  I  am  as  glad  to  see  you  as 
if  I  wanted  you  to  bathe  my  forehead." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  think  that,  cousin,"  said  Kate,  sigh 
ing,  and  looking  wistfully  at  him,  "  or  you  would  not  leave 
us  so  long." 

"  Why,  I  have  not  been  here  a  week." 

"  That's  a  long  time— a  long,  long  time  indeed  1 " 

Mr.  Effingham  softly  smoothed  the  bright  head. 

"  I  was  much  longer  away,  when  I  went  to  England,'* 
he  said,  "  and  you  did  not  write  me  a  word  to  return,  dear. 
You  did  send  me  enough  of  love,  however." 

"  Yes,  but  I  love  you  more  now  : — you  didn't  take  much 
notice  of  me  when  I  was  a  little  chicken,  running  about 
the  Hall — and  then,  and  then,  cousin — " 

"  What  ?  » 

"  You  know,  you  had  to  go  England —  " 

"  You  mean  —  " 

"  Yes,  dear  cousin  Champ,"  said  Kate,  with  a  tremulous 
but  earnest  voice,  "  I  mean  that  you  needn't  have  come  here. 
Don't  be  angry  with  me,  please." 

"  Angry  with  you  ! " 

"  For  I  love  you  so  much.  I  don't  think  you  ought  to 
stay  here  now,  indeed,  you  would  be  better  at  the  Hall. 
Come  now,"  she  said,  with  an  earnest  pleading  look,  which 
made  the  little  face  inexpressibly  lovely,  "  go  back  with  me ! 
won't  you  ?  Oh  1  I'll  be  so  good  if  you'll  go  back ;  and  so  will 
Willie— for  I  will  make  him.  Think  how  happy  we  would 
be,  dear  cousin  Champ — indeed  we  can't  be  happy  at  all, 
while  you  are  away.  I  can't." 

And  the  little  head  drooped,  the  fair  curls  falling  down, 
and  veiling  the  child's  cheeks.  Mr.  Effingham  was  silent, 
but  he  unconsciously  clasped  the  small  hand  lying  on  his 
own  more  tightly,  as  if  some  invisible  and  hostile  force  were 
pulling  him  the  other  way,  and  in  the  child  lay  his  only  hope 
of  resistance. 

"  You  can't  think  how  your  being  away  has  made  me 
feel — indeed,  you  can't,"  continued  the  child,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  glancing  at  his  face  with  wistful,  dewy  eyes ;  "  you  know 
I  never  liked  any  body  I  loved  to  go  away,  and  after  papa, 
I  love  you  better  than  any  body  in  the  world.  Ever  since 


152     HOW  MR.  EFFINOHAM'S  ROOM  WAS  ILLUMINATED. 

you  went,  and  papa  got  angry,  I  have  felt  as  if  I  was  going 
to  fall  sick — I  was  so  sorry  !  Papa  didn't  look  like  he  waa 
well  either,  and  sometimes  I  think  I  saw  cousin  Alethea 
looking  sorry.  When  Tom  was  packing  up  your  portman 
teau,  I  thought  you  were  going  away,  and  put  in  it  —  " 

"  Did  you  put  that  Bible — ' 

"  Yes,  cousin  Champ — for  I  knew  you  would  like  to  read 
out  of  my  little  Bible." 

Mr.  Effingham  rose,  and  going  to  his  dressing-table,  took 
the  small  volume  from  his  portmanteau. 

"  Hero  Katy,"  he  said,  turning  aside  his  head  as  he 
spoke,  "  I  have  not  time  to  read  it  now." 

"  Oh,  but  keep  it !  " 

"  No— I  don't  wish  to." 

"  Not  when  I  ask  you  to,  cousin  Champ  ?  " 

"  No — no — not  now,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a  shadow 
on  his  face. 

Kate  looked  inexpressibly  hurt,  and  two  tears  which  she 
could  not  restrain,  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Mr.  Effingham 
strode  up  and  down  the  apartment — passed  his  hand  wearily 
over  his  forehead,  gazed  wistfully  at  the  child,  and  the  book 
she  held,  and  then  away  from  her  again.  He  stopped  finally 
before  the  window,  and  looked  out.  Then  he  felt  a  little 
hand,  warm  and  soft,  take  his  own ;  and  turning  round,  the 
child  was  again  in  his  arms,  pressed  to  his  heart. 

"  Katy,"  he  said,  with  a  troubled  voice,  "  I  cannot 
keep  your  Bible  now — I  have  not  time  to  read  it — and  some 
one  coming  in  here  might  take  it." 

Mr.  Effingham's  face  clouded.  The  thought  had  oc 
curred  to  him  that  some  one  of  the  rude,  jeering  actors 
might  touch  it — and  at  that  moment  he  felt  as  if  he  would 
preserve  it  from  such  profanity  at  the  hazard  of  his  life. 

"  Keep  it,  dear,"  he  added,  tenderly,  "  I  will  read  it  if 
I  ever — when,  I  mean,  I  come  back  to  the  Hall.  Now, 
don't  ask  me  to  take  it  back  any  more,  Katy — indeed,  I 
cannot." 

The  child  put  the  volume  into  the  pocket  of  her  frock, 
with  an  expression  of  quiet,  uncomplaining  sorrow,  which  was 
very  touching. 

"  I'll  promise  to  read  it  every  day,  when  I  get  back, 
dear,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  "  now  don't  feel  badly." 


HOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM'S  ROOM  WAS  ILLUMINATED.     153 

"  Oh  !  if  you  would  only  come  back,"  she  said,  hiding 
her  head  in  his  bosom,  and  crying,  "  Oh !  cousin  Champ  1 
if  you  would  only  come  back  !  Oh,  please  do — please  leave 
this  place,  and  don't  be  angry  with  papa  any  more.  They 
said  you  came — to  see — to  see — a — lady,  cousin  Champ 
You  know  you've  seen  her  now,  and  if  she  is  good,  and  I 
know  you  would  not  like  her  if  she  was  bad — if  she  is  good 
she  wouldn't  have  you  to  distress  us  to  come  and  see  her ! 
Oh,  where  is  she  ?  I'll  go  and  tell  her  myself,  if  you'll  let 
me,  how  much  we  want  you  to  come  back  to  us,  and  I  knoM 
you  will  not  think  I  am  presuming.  Now,  do  let  me  go  >-•- 
I'm  sure  she  will  not  be  angry  with  a  little  child  like  me — 
where  is  she,  cousin  Champ  ?  " 

Mr.  Effingham  held  the  child  upon  his  lap,  overcome 
with  gloomy  and  yet  hopeful  thoughts.  She  looked  into  his 
face,  and  saw  the  troubled  expression. 

"  Oh,  come — come  !  "  she  said,  in  an  earnest,  pleading 
voice,  "  indeed  you  are  not  well.  Oh,  cousin  Champ,  you 
will  not  refuse  me — your  pet — please  come — now  cousin 
Champ — we'll  all  go  back  so  nicely  in  the  chariot — and — 
won't  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  and  said : 

"  Katy,  do  you  believe  in  guardian  angels  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — if  you  mean — " 

"  Then,  do  you  believe  in  angels  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  oh,  yes !  " 

"  And  in  heaven  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  mamma  is  in  heaven,  and  papa,"  she  said. 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is  like?"  he  continued,  gazing 
on  the  tender  face,  "  a  great  city  of  pearls,  and  diamonds, 
and  gold  ?  Come,  don't  be  surprised  at  my  speaking  so 
abruptly.  Do  you  think  there  is  really  a  heaven,  and 
angels  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  cousin  Champ — and  I'm  sure  it  is  not  made 
of  gold  and  diamonds — I  mean  I  don't  think  it  is.  I  think 
it's  a  place  where  we  all  love  each  other  more  than  we  can 
on  earth — and  God,  too." 

"  Can  we  love  more  than  we  do  on  earth  ? "  he  said, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Oh,  yes — I  believe  we  can — and  then  we  will  not  have 
any  thing  in  heaven  to  make  us  sorry.  We  won't  be  sick, 


.54      HOW   MR.    EFFINGHAM  S   ROOM   WAS   ILLUMINATED. 

and  grieved,  and  all,  but  be  happy,  and  love  God  for  evoi 
and  ever." 

Mr.  Effingham  made  no  reply ;  he  only  murmured  to  him 
self. 

"  Angels  are  good — like  little  children  before  they  gel 
bad,"  added  Kate,  earnestly  ;  "  there's  a  verse  about  '  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven,'  and  it's  being  filled  with  good  people, 
like  little  children..  Must  I  show  it  to  you  ?" 

fa  No,  no — I  believe  not,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  "  I  don't 
know  that  reading  the  Bible  would  do  me  any  good.  I  be 
lieve  what  that  verse  says  already,  dear,"  he  added,  looking 
with  moist  eyes  at  the  child,  "  and  I  meant  that  when  I 
asked  you  about  heaven  ;  '  Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me  and  forbid  them  not — for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.'  Is  not  that  the  verse  ?  I  knew  it  was.  Well,  I 
wish  I  had  died  at  your  age." 

"  Oh  1  "  said  Kate,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  am  not  good 
enough — I'm  very  bad." 

"  You  are  heavenly  in  comparison  with  me." 

"  Oh,  cousin  Champ  !  " 

"  I  am — well,  well,"  he  said,  suddenly  checking  himself: 
and  he  murmured,  "  Why  should  I  deprive  myself  of  this 
child's  heart." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  you  are  not  well,"  said  Kate,  gazing 
with  a  long,  sad  look,  on  the  troubled  and  gloomy  face,  "  and 
I  think  something  has  grieved  you," 

"  No,  no—" 

"  Let  me  read  a  little  to  you,  please — I  know  you'll 
like—" 

"  No,  no ;  I'm  not  fit  to  hear  reading  now,  dear,"  he 
said,  but  more  softly,  and  with  less  decision  in  his  tone. 

Kate  noted  this  change,  with  that  marvellous  quicknesd 
of  children,  and  said : 

"  Oh,  yes ;  let  me  read  you  just  a  little  about  heaven. 
When  I  read  it,  I  never  feel  sorry  afterwards ;  and,  if  I  am 
lick,  it  makes  me  feel  almost  well  and  happy.  Sometimes  I 
think  about  my  being  a  little  child,  without  any  father  or 
mother — any  real  father,  I  mean,  though  papa  is  my  father 
— and  I  feel  like  crying ;  but  I  read  a  little  in  my  Bible, 
and  think  that  papa  and  mamma  are  in  heaven,  and  that,  if 
I  am  good,  I'll  go  to  heaven,  too ;  and,  then,  I  feel  as  if  it 


MOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM'S  ROOM  WAS  ILLUMINATED.     155 

wasn't  much  matter  whether  I  felt  sick  and  badly  or  not,  so 
I  kept  myself  good ;  for  I  will  see  them  in  heaven,  if  I 
obey  God." 

The  weary  and  storm-tossed  soul  listened  to  these  simple 
words,  and  felt  a  strange  emotion  at  his  heart,  as  if  that 
heart  had  been  frozen,  and  was  slowly  melting. 

"  For  you  know,"  Kate  went  on,  earnestly,  "  this  world  ia 
not  a  good  place,  and  we  can't  be  very  happy  here,  though 
some  things  are  very  sweet  and  pleasant.  We  have  to  suffer 
a  great  deal  here,  and  we  must  get  mighty  tired.  But  we 
ought  not  to  cohaplain  when  we  have  heaven  to  think  of, 
where  all  will  be  happiness  and  joy.  We  feel  wrong  towards 
people  very  often,  at  least  I  do,  and  people  behave  badly  to 
us,  and  make  us  suffer ;  but  we  ought  to  bear  all  this,  when 
we  think  of  living  and  loving  dearly  in  heaven,  for  ever  and 
for  ever.  Oh  1  let  me  read  what  St.  John  says  about  lov 
ing  each  other  and  God  :  I  always  loved  to  read  what  he 
says." 

And,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  the  child  opened  her 
little  Bible,  and  read,  in  a  low,  subdued,  earnest  voice,  some 
verses,  which  the  young  man  listened  to  in  silence.  Kate 
closed  the  book,  and  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  said  : 

"  That  sounds  to  me  so  sweet,  that  it  makes  me  happy." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  murmured  Mr.  Effingham,  covering  his  eyes 

"  Do  you  like  to  hear  me  read  ?  "  she  asked,  wistfully. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured  again. 

"  Then,"  said  Kate,  with  an  expression  of  entreaty, 
which  lit  up  her  tender  little  face,  like  a  light  from  heaven, 
and  putting  her  arm  round  his  neck  as  she  spoke — "  then 
come  and  go  back  1  Oh,  please  come  and  go  back,  and  I'll 
read  to  you  whenever  you  want  to  hear  me  ;  and,  oh  !  we'll 
be  so  happy,  cousin  Champ  !  I  can't  be  happy  while  you  are 
here,  and  I  think  that  you  are  not  well,  may  be,  and  haven't 
any  body  to  do  little  things  for  you.  Don't  stay  in  this  place, 
and  be  all  by  yourself.  I'm  sure  cousin  Alethea's  sorry  if 
she  said  any  thing  to  make  you  angry;  indoed,  I  know  she  is 
for  she  said  to  papa  that  she  ought  not  to  have  said  something 
to  you.  Papa  is  dreadfully  distressed  at  your  going  away, 
and,  indeed — indeed — "  (here  the  child's  voice  faltered)  "  I 
shall  be  so  unhappy — so — so — Oh,  cousin  Champ,do  come  and 
go  with  me  !  Oh,  please  don't  stay  !  You  can't  find  any  body 


156    HOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM'S  ROOM  WAS  ILLUMINATED., 

to  love  you  as  much  as  we  do,  and  till  you  come  back  the 
Hall  will  look  dark  to  me." 

The  little  arm  around  his  neck  drew  him  toward  the 
door;  the  beseeching  voice  went  to  his  heart,  and  melted  all 
his  pride,  and  hardness,  and  stubborn  coldness;  the  half  jest 
he  had  uttered  about  his  guardian  angel,  seemed  to  become 
a  heavenly  reality — to  be  there  in  the  person  of  that  child, 
entreating  him  to  go  away  with  her. 

"  Oh,  come  1  "  cried  Kate,  clinging  closer  and  closer  to 
him,  and  turning  her  moist,  tender  eyes  upon  his  own  ; 
"  come  with  me,  cousin  Champ — come  back  with  us — oh  ! 
you  are  coming.  I  knew  you  would.  You  wouldn't  refuse 
me,  I  know." 

And  she  placed  one  hand  on  the  door  to  open  it. 

Before  she  could  touch  the  knob  the  door  opened,  and  a 
servant  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"  A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir  ;  ask  him  up,  sir  ?  "  he 
said,  bowing. 

Mr.  Effingharn  hesitated,  and  was  silent.  It  might  have 
been  imagined  that  he  feared  to  leave  the  child — to  go  be 
yond  the  reach  of  her  voice,  the  brightness  of  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "  who 
ever  it  is  I  will  see  him.  Stay  here,  dear — wait  till  I  come 
back — I  will  return  directly.  Say  I  will  be  down  immedi 
ately,"  he  added,  to  the  servant. 

Then  stooping,  and  pressing  his  lips  to  the  child's  fore 
head,  he  said,  tenderly  and  softly  : 

"  Stay  till  I  return,  Katy ;  I  will  soon  send  this  gentle 
man  off,  whoever  he  may  be.  I  cannot  lose  you  so  soon,  and 
I  think,  before  you  go — if  I  do  not  go  with  you — you  may 
read  me  some  more." 

Kate  looked  inexpressibly  delighted,  and  this  expression 
of  joy  seemed  to  touch  and  please  Mr.  Effingham  extremely. 
He  threw  a  last  fond  glance  on  the  child,  and  saying  again 
that  he  would  be  back  in  a  moment,  went  out  and  closed  tho 
door.  Kate  sat  down  overcome  with  joy  and  pride  :  her 
smile  seemed  to  illuminate  the  whole  apartment,  dimming 
the  very  radiance  of  the  sunlight. 

Ten  minutes  passed  thus,  when  suddenly  a  knock  at  the 
door  made  her  heart  throb ;  and  rising  quickly  to  her  feet, 
she  said,  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  "  Come  in  1 " 


ENTER    SHYLOCK,   AND   HIS   SHADOW.  157 

CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

ENTEB  8HYLOCK,  AND  HIS  SHADOW. 

THE  door  opened,  and  two  men  made  their  appearance.  We 
say  men :  it  would  be  sacrificing  too  much  to  courtesy  to  call 
them  gentlemen  ;  for  neither  in  their  dress,  features,  nor  ex 
pression,  was  there  any  thing  whatsoever  remotely  entitling 
them  to  that  distinction.  He  who  came  first  was  that  wor 
thy  who  had  acted  Shylock  on  the  opening  night,  at  the 
theatre  near  the  capitol ;  and  the  reader  may  possibly  recol 
lect  Mr.  Manager  Hallam's  criticism  of  his  performance, 
delivered  in  the  presence  of  the  worthy  himself,  on  the  next 
morning,  at  the  Raleigh.  His  present  state  was  not  materi 
ally  an  improvement  upon  his  condition  that  night,  and 
having  dined  not  very  long  before,  his  spirits  were  naturally 
in  an  elevated  and  generous  condition.  When  Mr.  Pugsby 
had  emptied  his  pint  of  rum  or  his  bottle  of  port — a  delicacy 
which  he  did  not  usually  indulge  in,  however — he  felt  at  peace 
with  all  the  world,  and  ready  to  embrace  the  whole  of  mankind. 
His  companion  was  a  lean,  cadaverous  gentleman,  whose 
favorite  characters  were  "  Shallow,"  "  Slender  "  the  apothe 
cary  in  "  Romeo  and  Juliet," — he  had  been  assisting  Mr. 
Pugsby  in  emptying  his  last  bottle. 

Kate  beheld  the  entrance  of  these  worthies  with  great 
alarm  ;  though  her  womanly  little  air  of  dignity  did  not  de 
sert  her.  Perhaps  it  was  rather  distaste  than  alarm  which 
she  felt,  child  as  she  was,  for  certainly  no  contrast  could  have 
been  imagined  less  to  the  advantage  of  the  stage  worthies. 
Kate,  clad  in  her  rich  and  tasteful  little  costume  of  silk  and 
velvet — with  her  bright  eyes  and  rosy  face,  looked  like  a 
flower,  a  picture,  something  beautiful,  rich  and  rare,  to  be 
approached  with  reverence,  and  regarded  with  love  and  ad 
miration  : — she  seemed  out  of  place  in  the  rough  apartment, 
as  some  masterpiece  of  Titian,  framed  in  gold,  would  look 
hung  up  in  a  wide  garret,  with  a  ceiling  of  dirty  rafters. 
She  had  the  beauty  and  tenderness  of  childhood  :  purity  and 
gentleness  enveloped  her  like  a  oloud.  None  of  these  things 
appertained  to  the  worthies  who  now  entered,  inasmuch  ai 


158  ENTER    SHYLOCX,    AND    HIS    SHADOW. 

they  were  extremely  rough  and  common  specimens  of  human 
ity,  with  bloated  faces,  and  unsteady  gait,  and  sleepy-look 
ing  eyes,  which  rolled,  and  winked,  and  leered,  as  authentic 
tradition  relates  of  the  ancient  worthy  Silenus. 

Shylock  hesitated  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  and 
exhibited  a  species  of  inane  surprise,  at  finding  a  child,  in 
stead  of  his  brother-comedian,  Mr.  Effingham,  in  the  apart 
ment. 

"  Hum  ! "  said  Shylock,  by  way  of  signifying  that  he 
was  about  to  speak.  This  expressive  monosyllable  wag 
echoed  by  Shallow,  who,  to  save  himself  the  trouble  of 
thinking,  generally  repeated  or  coincided  in,  the  observations 
of  his  friend. 

"  Stand  and  unfold  thyself,"  continued  Shylock,  striking 
an  attitude,  and  facetiously  pretending  to  consider  Kate  a 
ghost. 

"  Unfold — yes,  unfold,"  echoed  Shallow,  stretching  out 
his  cadaverous  hand  as  his  friend  did. 

"  Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health  or  goblin  damned  ?  thou 
comest  in  such  a  questionable  shape,  I'll  speak  to  thee ! " 
continued  Shylock,  "  hey  ?  come,  speak  !  " 

Kate  felt  as  if  she  should  sink  into  the  floor,  and  was  so 
frightened  that  she  could  scarcely  restrain  her  tears  or  com 
mand  her  voice. 

"  Come,  come,  pretty  damsel  1 "  exclaimed  Shylock,  with 
some  impatience,  and  descending  into  prose,  "  come,  why 
don't  you  answer?  Who  are  you?  Why  are  you  here, 
instead  of  that  jolly  minion  of  the  moon,  that  lad  of  metal, 
hight  Childe  Effingham  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir  !  "  said  Kate,  with  a  trembling  voice,  and  re 
treating  as  the  leering  tragedian  approached  her,  "  Oh,  sir, 
I  am — Mr.  Effingham — I  mean,  he  is  just  gone,  sir." 

"  That  is  no  answer." 

"  No  answer,"  echoed  Shallow. 

"  A  subterfuge." 

"  Perfect." 

"  And  subterfuges  are  a  deadly  sin,"  said  Shylock,  whose 
words  unconsciously  flowed  into  a  metrical  shape. 

"  An  awful  sin,"  said  Shallow. 

"  So  now  perpend,  young  damsel,"  continued  Shylock, 
approaching  the  child,  who  shrank  back,  "  either  thou  dje't 


ENTER    SllXLOCK,    AND    HIS    SHADOW.  155 

presently,  or  do'st  relate  to  me  the  marvel  strange,  why  thou 
art  here — all  armed  in  complete — no,  thou  hast  no  steel ! 
Speak  !  what  art  thou  ?  And  if  thou  do'st  conceal  the  least 
small  thing — "  Shylock  drew  out  the  knife  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  whet  upon  his  shoe,  when  Antonio  was  to  be 
sacrificed,  and  flourished  it  with  deadly  meaning.  Kate 
shrank  further  back  and  turned  pale. 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  frighten  me  1  "  she  said. 

"  I'll  eat  thee  whole  ere  the  leviathan  hath  swum  a 
league — " 

Kate  fell  into  a  chair. 

"  Come,"  said  Shylock,  putting  up  his  knife,  "  I'll  be 
merciful,  if  I  am  a  Hebrew  vile,  and  thou,  fair  lass,  a  Chris 
tian." 

"  We'll  be  merciful,"  said  Shallow. 

"  Therefore,  unfold — unfold,  I  say  ! "  continued  Shylock, 
"  art  thou  base,  common,  and  popular  ;  or,  high  and  mighty, 
like  Prince  Hal  ? — discourse.  Whence  art  thou  ?  " 

Kate  murmured,  with  a  throbbing  heart :  "  From  the 
Hall,  sir." 

"  What  is  thy  name  ?  " 

"  Catherine,  sir  ! " 

"  Well,  Catherine,  listen :  thou  shalt  go  below,  and  bid 
the  tapster  draw  a  measure  of  rum,  which  thou  shalt  bring 
to  us.  We  are  noble  gentlemen,  come  hither  to  see  Prince 
Hal,  that  noble  bully.  Do'st  thou  understand  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  cannot  1     I  don't  know — " 

"  Do'st  thou  reply  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  don't  come  near  me,  I  do  not  like  you  1 " 

"  Not  like  me  ?  Well,  I  will  be  calm  I  Go  bid  them 
draw  the  ale  ;  do'st  hear,  thou  varlet  vile  ?  " 

Kate's  indignation  began  to  conquer  her  fear,  and,  child 
as  she  was,  in  the  midst  of  such  persons,  her  face  flushed 
with  anger,  at  the  word  vile.  "  I  can't  go,  sir,"  she  said. 

"  Cannot !  sayest  thou  ?     Why,  '  cannot'  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  any  body  here,  sir,"  she  replied ; 
"  please  let  me  pass  out." 

"  Never  !  thou  shalt  pass  over  my  dead  body,  rather." 

"  And  mine,"  said  Shallow. 

"  Oh,  I  must  pass ! "  cried  Kate,  endeavoring  to  leave 
(he  room. 


160  KATE   AND    BEATRICE. 

"  Stand  back  !  ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titama . 
But  thou  shalt  not  go  hence." 

"  I  must,  sir  !  "  said  Kate,  endeavoring  to  pass  again,  and 
nearly  crying  from  fear  and  indignation. 

"  By  heaven,  thou  diest !  "  And  uttering  these  words, 
Shylock  moved  with  unsteady  gait  to  shut  the  door.  But 
Kate  was  too  quick  for  the  worthy,  and  ran  through,  brush 
ing  against  him  as  she  passed.  Shylock  made  a  grasp  at 
her,  and  caught  the  ribbon  of  her  little  hat,  tearing  the 
covering  from  her  head.  The  next  moment  he  would  have 
reached  her  and  brought  her  back  by  main  force,  but  just 
as  she  was  about  to  fall  upon  her  knees,  in  despair,  the  door 
opposite  opened,  and  a  young  woman,  evidently  attracted  by 
the  noise,  appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  ma'am  !  that  man  won't  let  me  go  !  "  cried  Kate, 
"  he  has  frightened  me  nearly  to  death.  Oh,  don't  let  him 
take  me  from  you  1 "  And  clinging  to  the  dress  of  Beatrice, 
she  shrunk  from  the  infuriated  Shylock.  Beatrice,  with  a 
single  word  and  a  look,  closed  the  door  in  the  face  of  that 
worthy,  and  she  and  the  child  were  alone  together. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

KATE  AND  BEATRICE. 

FOR  a  moment  the  young  girl  and  the  child  were  silent ; 
Beatrice  knew  not  what  to  think  of  the  scene,  and  Kate  was 
indulging  in  a  hearty  cry.  At  last  she  dried  her  eyes,  and 
stopped  sobbing  by  degrees,  and  looking  at  Beatrice,  said  : 
"  Oh,  ma'am,  I'm  so  thankful  that  you  saved  me  from  that 
horrid  man  I " 

"  How  did  he  come  to  annoy  you,  my  child  ? "  said 
Beatrice,  looking  affectionately  at  the  sweet  little  face. 

"  Oh,  he  came  in,  and — and  because  I  wouldn't  go  and 
get  him  something — for  I  couldn't,  you  know.  Oh,  he 
frightened  me  so  !  "  and  Kate  began  to  sob  again. 

Beatrice  wiped  the  child's  eyes  and  got  her  a  glass  of 
water,  all  the  time  soothing  her  with  kind  words. 


161 

"  Don't  speak  if  it  makes  you  cry,"  she  said,  softly. 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  frightened,  now !  " 

"  You  are  quite  safe  here." 

"  Am  I  quite  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  rude  man  will  not  presume  to  come  into  this 
room,  and  were  he  to  do  so,  I  would  send  him  from  it  with  a 
single  word." 

And  Beatrice,  with  a  disdainful  motion  of  her  hand,  seem 
ed  to  wish  to  dismiss  so  insignificant  a  subject.  Kate  look 
ed  at  her  attentively,  for  the  first  time,  and  said  ; 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  I  think  you  are  too  pretty  and  good 
to  know  that  rude  man." 

Beatrice  turned  away. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  am  obliged  to  know  him,"  she  said 
in  a  low  tone,  "  but  how  did  you  come  to  be  pursued  by 
him  ?  It  was  disgraceful ! "  added  Beatrice,  with  a  generous 
flash  of  her  proud,  brilliant  eye. 

"  I  was  waiting  a  minute  for  cousiu,  who  had  gone  down 
*o  see  a  gentleman.  He  left  me  in  his  room,  and  I  was  so 
frightened  when  those  rude  men  came  in.  I  am  not  used  to 
such  people,  you  know ; — papa  don't  have  any  visitors  like 
them,  and  the  gentlemen  that  come  to  the  Hall  are  always 
kind  to  me.  Oh,  he  drew  out  such  an  ugly  sharp  knife,  and 
threatened  to  kill  me  1 "  added  Kate,  very  nearly  beginning 
to  cry  again.  Beatrice  looked  at  her  attentively :  some  re 
collection  seemed  to  be  struggling  in  her  mind. 

"  Strange  1 "  she  said,  "  I  seem  to  have  seen  this  child  be 
fore — somewhere- — where  was  it  ?  " 

And  she  pressed  her  forehead,  and  seemed  to  be  buried  in 
thought.  Kate  looked  at  her,  and  said,  timidly: 

'•  I  am  afraid  ma'am,  that  you  were  busy  when  I  came 
in." 

"  Yes,  I  was  my  child — but  that  is  nothing." 

"  Were  you  sewing  ?  what  a  pretty  handkerchief  I " 

And  remembering  the  scene  she  had  just  passed  through, 
Kate  used  the  embroidered  handkerchief  she  had  taken  up  to 
admire,  for  the  purpose  of  drying  a  rebellious  tear. 

"  I  was  not  sewing,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  look  of  weari 
ness,  "  I  was  studying.  But  you  have  not  told  me,  my  child, 
how  you  came  to  be  in  the  Raleigh." 

"  Oh,  cousin  Alethea,  and  Willie,  and  me,  can^e  to  town 
and—" 


162  KATE   AND   BEATRICE. 

"  Then  you  do  not  live  here :  but  I  forget — you  spoke  of 
the  Hall,  and  there  are  no  halls  here." 

"  Oh,  no :  a  hall  is  a  house  in  the  country." 

"  And  you  came  to  see  your  cousin — a  gentleman  who 
wears  a  red  cloak —  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  he's  not  my  cousin — " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Beatrice,  her  eyes  suddenly  dazzled  with  a 
rapid  lightning-like  thought,  "  your  cousin — what  is  his  name 
—the  Hall—  ?  " 

"  Cousin  Champ  is  his  name,  and  we  all  live  at  Effing- 
ham  Hall.  My  name  is  Catherine  Effingham — but  papa  is 
not  my  father." 

Beatrice  sat  down,  murmuring. 

"  Effingham  ! — Effingham — always  Effingham  1  Yes — 
at  the  theatre  !  " 

Kate  misunderstood  these  half-audible  words,  and  said  . 

"  Did  you  ask  if  Effingham  was  our  name,  ma'am  ?  Yes  ; 
and  I  know  papa  will  be  mighty  thankful  to  you  and  cousin 
Champ  too.  He's  a  dear  good  fellow,  and  I  love  him  dearly." 

Beatrice  remained  silent,  and  turned  away  her  face  in 
order  that  the  child  might  not  see  the  painful  and  gloomy 
expression  which  dimmed  the  eyes,  and  took  the  tender 
smile  from  the  lips. 

"  And  you  were  in  yon — in  Mr.  Effingham's  room — were 
you,  my  child  ?  "  she  murmured,  at  last. 

"  Yes ;  and  cousin  Champ  had  just  gone  down  to  see  a 
gentleman.  He  told  me  to  wait  till  he  came  back." 

"  Is  he  fond  of  you  ?  "  asked  Beatrice,  why  she  scarcely 
knew. 

"  I  know  he  is  1 "  exclaimed  Kate,  with  a  bright  smile 
shining  through  her  moist  eyes. 

"  And  you  love  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dearly  !  he  is  so  kind  and  good  1 " 

They  were  almost  the  very  words  which  had  escaped 
from  the  lips  of  Beatrice  after  her  interview  with  Charles ; 
and  the  recollection  of  that  interview  now  came  to  efface  the 
bitter  expression  which  followed  little  Kate's  words.  The 
bitter  smile  only  glanced,  then  flew  away. 

"  Did  your  father  bring  you  to  town,  my  child  ?  "  she 
asked,  pressing  her  hand  upon  her  heart  to  still  its  throbbing. 

"  Oh,  no  1 "  said  Kate,  "  papa  is  not  pleased  with  cousin 


KATE  AND  BEATRICE.  163 

Champ."  Then  regretting  this  speech,  she  added — "  that 
is — I  mean,  ma'am — cousin  Champ  went  away  from  the  Hall, 
and  hasn't  been  back." 

Beatrice  could  not  look  at  the  child. 

"  And  is  he  angry  ?  "  she  said. 

«  Who  ?— papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Beatrice. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  papa  is  much  angry ;  but  he  don't 
like  cousin  Champ  to  be  here." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Beatrice,  in  a  low  voice,  and  like  a  despair 
ing  soldier  turning  the  weapon  in  the  wound. 

"  He  came  to  see  some  lady  here,  and  papa  and  cousin 
Alethea  do  not  like — " 

"  No,  no — not  a  lady — " 

There  the  young  girl  stopped,  overcome,  panting,  avoid 
ing  the  child's  look,  her  head  drooping,  her  forehead  burning. 

"  I  don't  know  who  it  is,"  said  Kate,  "  but  I  think  cousin 
Alethea  said  it  was  that  young  actress  we  saw  act  in  the 
'  Merchant  of  Venice.'  " 

"  Do  you  not  recollect  her?  "  murmured  Beatrice. 

"  Who — Miss  Hallam  ?  Oh,  yes  1  She  wore  a  lovely 
fawn-colored  silk,  and  was  very  pretty." 

"  I  did  not  know  I  was  so  completely  changed,"  said  the 
young  girl,  turning  away  and  smiling  painfully.  Then  she 
said  aloud : 

"  And  so  Mr.  Effingham — your  cousin— came  to  see  the 
actress,  and  his  family  are  displeased  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  we  all  want  dear  cousin  Champ  to  come 
back.  I  don't  think  he  ought  to  come  here  to  see  an  actress 
She  is  not  good  enough  for  him,  and  oughtn't  to  distress  us. 

"  Oh,  it  is  an  unjust  punishment ! — it  is  unjust  1 "  mur 
mured  Beatrice,  with  tears  in  her  eyes :  but  Kate  neither 
saw  the  tears  nor  heard  these  bitter  words. 

"  I  came  to  tell  cousin  Champ  to-day  he  was  too  good 
for  her — but  I  didn't  like  to,"  continued  Kate,  not  observing 
the  change  in  the  countenance  of  Beatrice ;  "  we  read  some  in 
the  Bible,  though,  and  cousin  Champ  'u.  ?st  promised  to  go 
back  with  me — " 

"  Did  he  1 " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

«  Oh,  take  him  back  1" 


164  KATE   AN3    BEATRICE. 

Kate  was  somewhat  surprised  at  these  venement  woidfl( 
but  said : 

"  I  think  he  is  going  with  us.  I  don't  think  he  would 
leave  us,  all  who  love  him  so,  for  a  common  playing  girl." 

"  Oh,  it  is  unjust — it  is  unjust  I  "  repeated  Beatrice,  in 
an  inaudible  voice.  "  I  have  not  deserved  it ! " 

"  She's  very  pretty — for  I  believe  it  is  Miss  Hallam," 
continued  Kate,  "  but  she  is  not  good  enough  to  marry  cousin 
Champ,  you  know." 

Beatrice  rose  wildly,  and  said,  with  passionate  tears  in 
her  eyes : 

"  She  would  not  marry  him  ! — she  does  not  wish  to  !  I 
am  that  actress  1  I  am  Beatrice  Hallam !  He  has  made 
my  life  miserable  and  wretched  ;  he  follows  me,  persecutes 
me,  and  will  not  leave  me !  Oh,  I  am  not  to  blame — I  am 
not !  I  do  not  deserve  so  much  unjust  blame — no,  no  1  It 
is  cruel  in  you  to  make  me  suffer  so ! — oh,  it  is  cruel !  " 

And  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  the  young  girl  trem 
bled  and  shook  with  passionate  sobs.  Kate  was  so  much 
startled  and  alarmed  by  these  passionate  words  that  she 
stood  for  a  moment  motionless  with  surprise  and  astonish 
ment.  Then  her  tender  little  heart  overcame  every  thing, 
and  running  up  to  the  beautiful  girl  who  had  been  so  kind 
to  her,  she  took  her  hand,  and,  sobbing,  said : 

"  Don't  cry  ! — please,  don't  cry  1 — I  didn't  mean  to  be  so 
rude — indeed,  I  am  ashamed  and  sorry — oh  !  please  don't 
cry  I " 

And  Kate  herself  cried,  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
Beatrice  suffered  the  little  hand  to  imprison  her  own,  and 
slowly  raised  her  head  again — her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  child,"  she  said,  with  noble  dignity  and 
calmness,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  blame  you — I  could  not  help 
speaking  abruptly  and  shedding  some  tears — for  indeed  I 
am  not  to  blame.  My  lot  is  very  unhappy,  for  I  cannot  even 
ask  a  little  child  like  you  to  love  me." 

And  her  humid  eyes  dwelt  with  great  softr  ess  and  ten 
derness  on  Kate's  fresh  little  countenance,  over  which  large 
tears  were  chasing  each  other. 

"  I  am  glad  I  was  near  to  save  you  from  that  rude  man,' 
continued  Beatrice,  rising,  "  and  that  is  my  only  reward-  • 
my  own  feelings.  I  ask  no  other — " 


SHOWING  HOW  A  LOAF  Of  BAEAD  MAY  BE  USED.          166 

Kate  would  have  fallen  into  the  tender  arms,  for  very 
weakness  and  emotion. 

"  No,'*  said  Beatrice,  gently  repulsing  her,  "  I  am  an 
actress.  Come  ! " 

And  she  went  toward  the  door.  At  the  same  moment 
it  opened  violently,  and  Mr.  Effingham  stood  before  them. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

SHOWING  TO  WHAT  USE  A  LOAF  OF  BKEAD  MAT  BE  PUT. 

THE  young  man  entered  grasping  his  sword — which  he  had 
drawn  half  from  the  scabbard. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief:  then  turning 
upon  Beatrice,  he  said  :  "  I  have  to  thank  you,  madam,  for 
robbing  me  of  my  visitor  !  " 

And  his  haughty  eye  flashed,  as'  he  put  his  arm  round 
Kate,  and  drew  her  away.  Beatrice  made  no  reply — but 
Kate  cried  out. 

"  Oh !  cousin  Champ  !  Don't  speak  so  to  her  1  She 
was  so  good  to  me." 

"  Good  to  you,  Kate !  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Those  horrid  men  !     Oh,  they  frightened  me  so  I  " 

Mr.  Effingham  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  to  ask  an 
explanation. 

"  What  men  ?  "  he  said. 

"  The  men  that  came  into  your  room." 

"  Men  in  my  room  !     Who  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed,  cousin  Champ,  but  they  behaved 
very  badly  to  me." 

"  Behaved  badly  to  you  !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  his  brow 
flushing  with  haughty  fire. 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing,"  said  the  child,  becoming  alarmed 
at  the  storm  she  had  aroused,  "  they  only  frightened  me  a 
little  1  " 

Suddenly  Mr.  Effingham  looked  at  the  child's  hair  still 
disordered  and  rumpled — for  the  worthy  Shylock,  in  pulling 
away  her  hat,  had  naturally  dragged  the  well-brushed  hair 
from  its  place.  Mr.  Effingham  observed  this  at  a  glance, 
and  said,  with  a  flashing  eye  : 


166 

"  Where  is  your  hat,  Kate  ?  " 

Beatrice  rose. 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  has  taken  place  in  a  moment,  sir,' 
she  said,  calmly ;  "  it  is  nothing  more  than  happens  almost 
every  day — only  disgraceful,  you  know,  sir.  Mr.  Pugsby 
annoyed  your  young  relative,  and  the  child  came  to  my  apart 
ment  for  refuge.  I  gave  it  to  her,  that  is  all ;  and  now, 
sir—  " 

Mr.  Effingham  did  not  wait  to  hear  the  end  of  the  sen 
tence.  His  eye  burned  fiercely,  and  hurrying  out  with  the 
child,  he  said,  hastily: 

;<  Come,  Katy,  let  us  go  to  the  carriage :  I  must  put 
you  in  :  I  can't  go  to-day  to  the  Hall.  Ah,  when  you  are 
once  safe,  we'll  have  a  settlement —  " 

"  But  my  hat,  cousin  Champ  ?  "  said  Kate.  Mr.  Effing- 
ham's  teeth  ground  audibly,  but  before  he  could  make  a 
reply,  a  voice  behind  him,  loud  and  familiar,  said : 

"  Here's  your  beauty's  hat — where  the  devil  are  you 
going—  " 

It  was  Shylock,  who  came  along  the  passage  behind,  and 
turning,  Mr.  Effingham  saw  the  child's  hat  in  his  hand.  A 
flash  as  of  lightning  blazed  from  the  young  man's  eye,  and 
to  abandon  Kate's  hand,  throw  himself  upon  the  leering 
worthy,  clutch  him  by  the  throat,  and  hurl  him  headlong 
from  the  landing-place  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  was 
the  agreeable  employment  of  a  single  moment.  But  this 
did  not  satisfy  Mr.  Effingham's  rage;  and  motioning  the 
child  to  remain  behind,  he  sprung  down  the  steps,  and  ar 
riving  at  the  bottom  just  as  Shylock,  in  a  violent  rage,  rose 
up,  he  shouted  wrathfully : 

"  Draw,  you  dog  1  draw  !  you  wear  a  sword  1  Damn  my 
blood,  I'll  have  your  heart's  blood  !' 

And  drawing  his  sword,  the  young  man  would  have  plung 
ed  it  into  Shylock's  breast,  had  not  the  jolly  host  thrown  him 
self  between  the  combatants  and  received  the  thrust  in  a  huge 
loaf  of  bread  h*  was  lugging  into  his  larder.  This  incident 
BO  far  delayed  further  employment  of  the  weapon,  which  had 
completely  passed  through  it  to  the  hilt.  The  crowd  then 
oarted  the  infuriated  combatants,  and  this  consummation  was 
one  for  which  Shylock  seemed  devoutly  grateful.  Having 
Wily  frightened  the  child  for  fun,  as  that  worthy  said,  after- 


SHOWING  HOW  A  LOAF  3f  BREAD  MAt  BE  USED.          167 

wards,  Mr.  Effingham's  sudden  attack  upon  him  had  taken 
him  completely  by  surprise :  and  his  blood  had  scarcely 
time  to  rise.  So  it  was  they  were  parted,  and  Shylock,  mut 
tering  curses  and  threats  of  vengeance,  retreated  to  his  apart 
ment.  Mr.  Effingham,  with  insulting  disdain,  called  after  him 
that  he  should  have  an  opportunity  to  right  his  wrongs  at 
the  sword's  point,  though  he  might  be  excused  from  match 
ing  himself  against  such  a  cowardly  villain  ;  and  so  this  little 
interlude  ended. 

Kate,  sobbing  and  agitated,  had  put  on  her  little  hat, 
and  now,  with  Mr.  Effingham's  hand  in  her  own,  left  the 
inn.  At  the  threshold  they  ran  against  Master  Will,  who, 
breathless,  his  face  flushed,  his  mouth  open,  was  running  to 
ask  if  any  one  at  the  Raleigh  had  seen  Kate. 

"  Here  I  am,  Willie,"  said  the  child ;  "  I'm  not  crying, 
you  know — only  laughing." 

And  Kate,  after  this  abortive  effort  to  show  that  nothing 
had  happened,  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears.  Mr.  Effingham, 
with  a  short  and  curt  greeting  to  Will,  went  on  to  the  place 
where  the  carriage  stood,  and  placed  the  child  in  it.  Miss 
Alethea  had  felt  much  less  anxiety  about  Kate  than  Will, 
and  was  still  making  her  purchases.  Will  ran  in  to  tell  her 
that  Kate  was  found. 

Mr.  Effingham  was  going  away  in  silence,  after  pressing 
the  child's  hand,  when,  sobbing,  she  said : 

"  Oh,  won't  you  kiss  me  ?  you  are  not  angry  with  me, 
cousin  Champ !  " 

And  tears  choked  the  tender,  distressed  voice — deep 
sighs  shook  the  little  frame  of  the  child.  Mr.  Effingham 
jent  over  toward  her,  but,  suddenly  resuming  his  erect 
attitude,  said,  gloomily  : 

"  No,  no,  Katy ;  I  cannot  kiss  you.  No  ;  do  not  think 
of  me  in  future  ;  and  never  come  near  the  Raleigh  again 
Have  you  your  Bible  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  sobbed  Kate. 

"  Good,"  he  said,  in  the  same  quiet,  gloomy  voice ;  "  I 
will  love  you  dearly  as  long  as  I  live,  but  I  can  see  you  no 
more.  Good-bye,"  and,  turning  away,  he  muttered, 

"  The  die  is  cast !  " 


163  .         WHAT    MR.    EFFINGHAM    MEANT,    WHEN 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

WHAT  ME.  EFFINGHAM  MEANT  WHEN  HE  SAID  THAT  THE  DH 
WAS  CAST. 

LET  us  now  endeavor  to  explain  why  Mr.  Effingham  acted  so 
strangely  toward  the  child,  refusing  to  kiss  her  at  parting, 
and  exhibiting  that  singular  solicitude  about  her  Bible's 
safety,  in  the  little  pocket.  The  explanation  of  these  mat 
ters  will  be  found  in  that  interview  with  the  nameless  gen 
tleman,  whom  Mr.  Effingham  left  Kate  to  go  and  see. 

When  the  young  man  descended,  he  saw,  seated  in  the 
ordinary,  waiting  for  him,  his  friend,  Jack  Hamilton,  the 
fox-hunter.  A  family  tradition,  supported  by  the  family 
Bible,  averred  that  this  gentleman's  name  had  originally 
been  John,  but  this  was  not  generally  credited,  so  com 
pletely  had  the  sobriquet  by  which  he  was  almost  universally 
addressed,  come  to  be  regarded  as  the  name  given  to  him  by 
his  sponsors  in  baptism.  The  face  which  Mr.  Hamilton  re 
joiced  in,  was,  perhaps,  remotely  responsible  for  this  altera 
tion  in  his  patronymic  ;  and  it  seemed  almost  impossible  to 
feel  that  he  should  be  addressed  by  any  other  name  than  a 
nickname.  He  was  a  hearty,  laughing,  honest-looking  fellow, 
with  frank,  open  eyes ;  a  nose,  which  seemed  to  be  everlast 
ingly  engaged  in  snuffing  up  the  odors  of  broils  and  roasts, 
or  critically  testing  wines  ;  a  voice,  which  greeted  all,  high 
and  low,  with  nearly  equal  friendliness,  cordiality,  and 
heartiness.  Mr.  Hamilton  was  richly  clad,  but  down  his 
velvet  pantaloons  ran  a  long  red  stain,  the  blood  of  a  fox  he 
had  followed  to  the  death  on  the  preceding  day. 

Mr.  Effingham  greeted  him  with  unusual  cordiality,  and 
his  languid,  indifferent,  petit  maitre  manner  seemed  to  have 
entirely  disappeared — at  least,  this  was  the  observation 
made  by  his  friend. 

"  You  were  busy,  were  yob  not  ?  "  said  Hamilton  ;  "  any 
friends  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  Well,  that's  understood,  or,  it  would  be  understood," 
eaid  honest  Jack  Hamilton,  '  if  my  visit  was  a  mere  drop- 
ping-in,  as  I  passed  by,  to  use  the  new  slang  which  is  be- 


HE   SAID    THAT    THE    DIE    WAS   CAST.  169 

coming  fashionable ;  but  I  came  to  say  something  to  you, 
Champ.  Come,  let's  take  a  stroll." 

"  I  would — but — really — " 

And  Mr.  Effingham  thought  of  Kate. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  fear  being  detained  any  time,  scarcely. 
Come,  we  cannot  talk  here." 

And,  putting  his  arm  through  Mr.  Effingham's,  the  fox- 
hunter  led  him  away. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  young  man  to  himself,  "  Katy 
can  amuse  herself  for  a  few  minutes,  until  I  return ;  and  I 
must  know  what  brings  Hamilton  to  see  me.  He  evidently 
has  something  on  his  mind." 

They  strolled  out  into  the  square,  in  the  centre  of  the 
town,  and  found  themselves  thus  insulated  from  the  ears,  if 
not  from  the  eyes,  of  the  community.  Hamilton  stopped, 
and  said  : 

"  I  came  to  talk  about  this  ball,  Champ." 

"  What  ?  at  the  Governor's  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  my  dear  fellow?" 

"These  actors,  here,  and  the  people  at  the  tavern,  are 
saying — " 

"  That  I  am  going  to  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  With  Beatrice  Hallam?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  they  had  the  right  to  say  so  I  announced  my 
intention  to  do  so,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  in  a  gloomy  and 
hesitating  voice. 

"  The  people  at  the  tavern  have  been  talking  through 
the  town  about  it,"  continued  Hamilton,  "  and  so  it  got  to 
the  gentlemen  in  the  neighborhood,  and  created  quite  a 
sensation." 

"  It  seems  that  every  thing  I  do  creates  something  of  that 
description,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  gloomily. 

"  But,  really,  you  must  confess  that  this — " 

"  Deserves  to  create  a  sensation,  you  would  say :  is  it 
not  so  ?  " 

'  Well,  Champ,  I'll  be  honest  with  you,  and  say  that  I 
think  it  does." 

Mr.  Effingham  passed  his  hand  thoughtfully  and  wearily 
8 


170  WHAT    MR.    EFFINGHAM    MEANT,    WHEN 

acrose  his  brow.  A  struggle  seemed  to  be  going  on  in  h  t 
mind.  "  If  I  fancy  going  with  this  young  woman,  I  will 
go,"  he  said,  at  length. 

"  You  have  not  determined,  then  ?  "  said  Hamilton,  dis 
playing  great  satisfaction  at  these  words. 

Mr.  Effingham  mused.  "  I  had  determined,"  he  replied, 
"  but  I  do  not  know  now  if  I  shall  go — I  think  not." 

"  Delighted  to  hear  it !  really  now,  Champ,  you  must 
permit  me  to  say  that  you  are  too  good  a  fellow  to  throw 
yourself  away  upon  that  young  girl,  though  I  grant  you  she 
is  pretty.  I  suppose,  though,  you  are  running  after  her  as 
we  run  a  fox,  for  the  glorious  excitement  of  the  chase.  Up 
and  away  1  ride  all  day  and  night !  no  matter  if  you  break 
your  neck,  you  gain  the  excitement  and  glory  !  " 

Mr.  Effingham's  countenance  displayed  still  the  struggle 
going  on  in  his  mind.  Then  a  bright  light  cleared  away  the 
gloom  and  doubt,  and  his  features  became  serene  and  soft 
once  more.  He  had  thought  of  Kate,  and  now  said :  "  Jack, 
I  don't  think  I  will  go.  No,  I  will  not  1 " 

"  By  George,  I'm  delighted  to  hear  it  1 " 

"  You're  a  good  friend  !  " 

"  I  hope  so  ;  we  have  run  many  a  fox  together." 

"  Yes,  yes !  " 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  gray  rascal  we  ran  from 
Cote's  to  the  ford  ?  what  a  day  we  had — and  Tom  Lane  has 
not  got  over  his  dislocated  shoulder  to  this  day." 

"  Those  were  fine  times,  fine  times  !  "  said  Mr.  Effing- 
barn,  cheerily. 

"  And  you  remember,  by  George ! "  said  Hamilton, 
laughing  heartily,  "  I  recollect  it  as  if  it  was  yesterday  1 
You  remember  when  we  swept  by  the  Hall  like  a  parcel  of 
wild  devils,  Tom  Lane  came  near  running  over  your  little 
cousin — what  was  her  name  ?  I  think  it  was  Kate  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  I  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a  soft  smile. 

"  A  lovely  little  creature,  and  as  good  as  she's  pretty ; 
I  saw  her  at  the  Hall  the  other  day,  when  I  went  to  see  my 
good  friend,  Miss  Alethea — think  of  a  bachelor,  confirmed 
and  obdurate  like  myself,  having  lady  friends  1 — the  child 
took  my  eye  mightily,  and  I  do  believe  she  recollected  the 
old  times  before  you  went  to  England  1 " 

"  Happy   times,  happy   times  1 "   said   Mr.    Effingham 


HE    SAID    THAT    THE    DIE    WAS    {AST.  171 

returning  to  his  youth  again,  as  the  fox-hunter  brought  tha 
past  back  to  him  with  his  familiar,  honest  voice,  his  frank 
eyes,  and  laughing  reminiscences. 

u  Yes,  they  were  happy  enough,"  said  Hamilton,  "  and 
you  thought  so  then,  I  know,  judging  from  the  foolish  things 
you  were  guilty  of  about  Clare  Lee.  By  George,  she  was  a 
perfect  little  angel,  and  is  yet !  " 

Mr.  Effingham's  head  drooped. 

"  I  remember  when  we  all  used  to  go  to  gather  applefl. 
I  was  a  young  man,  then,  but  just  as  young  as  the  youngest, 
and  your  favorite  practice  was  to  hold  up  the  corners  of  her 
silk  apron,  until  that  black  monkey,  Joe,  threw  down  enough 
to  fill  it—" 

Mr.  Emngham  smiled. 

"  And  as  the  little  apron  slowly  got  full,  it  weighed 
down  more  and  more,  and  naturally  you  came  closer  to  pretty 
Clare  ;  and  somehow  your  face  struck  against  her  own,  the 
lower  portions  thereof  1  and — ah,  Champ,  my  boy,  you  were 
a  wild  fellow  then  !  "  And  Mr.  Hamilton  laughed  heartily. 
His  companion  smiled,  with  dreamy  eyes  and  tender  lips, 
thinking  of  his  boyhood  and  of  Clare. 

"  After  that,  you  took  it  into  your  head  to  go  to  Eng 
land,  and  came  back  the  perfect  dandy  you  are,"  continued 
honest  Jack  Hamilton,  with  refreshing  frankness. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  smiling. 

"  And  snubbed  us." 

"  No,  no  I " 

"  And  swaggered  about  like  a  lord,  and  talked  literature 
like  a  wit — what  a  wearisome  thing  literature  is !  And  you 
altogether  deteriorated  !  Come,  now,  deny  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  cannot,"  said  Mr.  Emugham,  thinking  of 
Clare. 

"  Still  our  family — we  are  distant  kin,  you  know — our 
family  comes  of  too  good  a  stock  to  degenerate,  and  I  don't 
thiuk  your  foreign  journeyings,  have  hurt  you  much.  The 
folks  all  about  stand  up  for  you,  and  have  one  eternal  ob 
servation,  which  makes  me  yawn,  about  your  '  sowing  your 
wild  oats.'  They  always  shake  their  heads  when  my  name 
is  mentioned,  and  hiut  that  my  crop  is  always  being  put  in, 
and  never  reaped  and  disposed  of." 

"  You're  better  than  X  am,  Jack,"  said  his  friend 


172  WHAT   MR.    EFFINGHAM   MKANT,    WHKN 

"  The  devil !  no  compliments  !  If  some  folks  heaid  thai, 
they  would  dissent  most  emphatically  1 " 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  All  sorts  of  people,  even  down  to  that  little  chick  we 
were  talking  of,  Kate.  By  George,  sir,  you  should  have 
heard  the  eulogy  she  pronounced  in  your  honor,  on  the  visit 
I  mentioned  I  made  to  the  Hall !  " 

"  What !  little  Kate  praised—" 

"  Yes,  I  should  think  so  :  the  private  impression  of  any 
stranger  who  had  heard  her,  would  have  been  that  her  illus 
trious  cousin  united  in  his  single  person  all  the  graces,  attrac 
tions,  and  virtues  of  the  greatest  sages  and  heroes  of  modern 
and  ancient  times.  Of  course  such  extravagance  couldn't 
deceive  one  who  knew  you  as  well  as  I  did  1  " 

Mr.  Effingham  found  himself  laughing  delightedly,  and 
murmuring,  "  Darling  Kate  !  " 

"  Well,  now,  I'm  glad  to  see  that  my  well-meant  advice 
is  not  needed,"  continued  Hamilton.  "  You  will  not  go  to 
the  ball  with  Beatrice  Hallam  ?  " 

"  No — no ;  I  think  I  shall  go  back  to  the  Hall  to-day." 

"  Good  !  Take  a  seat  in  my  turn-out !  I'm  glad  you 
are  not  going  there — for  there  would  have  come  no  good 
from  it.  Those  fellows  are  very  hotbrained." 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  just  thinking  of  what  a  party  of  fellows  were 
saying  of  it,"  said  Hamilton,  not  reflecting  upon  his  words, 
or  being  at  all  conscious  how  injudicious  they  were.  "  They 
talked  so  that  I  thought  I  would  co'ine  and  see  you." 

"  What  did  they  say  ?  "  Mr.  Effingham  asked,  with  an 
imperceptible  clouding  of  the  brow. 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  them.  They  got  to  talking,  and  said 
nothing  but  what  was  foolish — they  said  that  your  going 
with  Miss  Hallam  was  out  of  the  question — and  I  agree 
with  them." 

"  How  out  of  the  question  ?  " 

"  Why,  ridiculous. ' 

"  Ridiculous  ?  " 

"  Come  1  my  dear  fellow,  don't  think  of  them." 

"  But  what  did  they  say  ? — who  were  they  1  "  asked 
Mr.  Effingham,  feeling  his  anger  rise  at  what  he  regarded  aa 
an  impertinent  piece  of  interference  with  his  private  affairs 


HE    SAID    THAT    THE    DIE    WAS    CAST.  173 

"  I  will  not  tell  their  names,"  said  Hamilton. 

"  Well — their  words,  then." 

"  Their  words  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  what  did  they  say  of  my  going  to  the  ball 
Come,  tell  me,  Hamilton." 

"  Well,  as  I  came  to  tell  you,  I  will,"  his  friend  replied 
thoughtlessly ;  "  they  said  it  was  wrong." 

"  Wrong  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  ridiculous." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a  curling  lip. 

"  No  !  "  said  Hamilton ;  "  they  got  to  saying  after  the 
third  bottle,  that  they  would  not  permit  it — by  George ! 
There  it  is  out,  fool  that  I  am !  But  when  did  I  ever  fail 
to  make  a  fool  of  myself !  " 

And  conscious,  too  late,  of  his  indiscretion,  Mr.  Jack 
Hamilton  regarded  his  own  conduct  with  profound  contempt 
and  indignation.  He  was  not  far  wrong,  if  this  were  on  the 
score  of  discretion :  for  his  last  words  completely  aroused 
the  devil  of  pride  and  obstinate  wilfulness,  which  had  been 
put  to  sleep  by  those  familiar  reminiscences  of  youth  and 
home,  and  Clare's  tenderness — Kate's,  too. 

"  Not  permit  me  to  attend  the  ball  with  Beatrice  Hal 
lam ! "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  disdainful  pride.  "  By 
heaven  !  I  will  know  who  dared  to  say  that  1  " 

"  I  will  not  tell  you,"  said  Jack  Hamilton,  stoutly.  Mr. 
Effingham's  hand  grasped  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"  I  have  been  insulted  1  "  he  said, 

"  None  was  meant." 

"  None  meant!" 

"  I  tell  you,  Champ ;  they  had  all  been  drinking,  and  did 
not  know  what  they  said." 

"  No  man  shall  insult  me,  and  say  he  was  intoxicated  ! 
I  will  not  take  such  a  lame  excuse,  'Hamilton." 

"  Come,  now — challenge  me,"  said  his  friend,  coolly. 

"  No ;  I  shall  apply  to  the  proper  parties  for  redress." 

"  Of  course,  I  am  responsible,  Champ.  Come,  run  your 
short  sword  through  me,  and  let  out  the  foolish  mind  which 
has  made  me  act  so  childishly  !  " 

"  Hamilton,  you  have  acted  as  a  real  friend,"  said  Mr. 
Effingham,  with  a  frown.  "  I  hold  that  no  friend  should 
hear  another  spoken  of  in  such  terms,  without  informing  him 
of  the  assault  upon  his  honor  " 


IT4  WHAT   MR.    EFFINCJH.iM    MEANT,   WHEN 

'•  What  assault  is  there  here,  in  the  devil's  name  ?  " 

"  They  said  that  my  conduct  was  ridiculous — " 

"  A  mere  joke  ! " 

"  And  they — the  paladins  of  respectability  and  chbalry 
— they  would  not  permit  me  to  go  to  the  Governor's  ball- 
to  escort  Miss  Hallam  thither.  By  heaven  !  I'll  make  them 
repent  it." 

"  Champ,  you  are  as  furious  as  a  Spanish  bull — you  see 
red  at  a  moment's  warning !  Come,  moderate  your  anger.' 

"  I  am  not  angry  !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  furiously. 

"  Not  angry  !  " 

"  No— I  am  indignant,  though ;  and  I  will  show  these 
excellent  gentlemen  that  my  actions  or  intentions  are  not 
such  as  concern  themselves.  I  shall  find  the  paladins  1  " 

"  How  will  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  will  go  to  that  ball  with  Miss  Hallam,  and  if 
any  gentleman  in  the  room  looks  sideways  at  her  or  at  me,  I 
will  call  him  to  account  for  it.  Your  bottle  critics  will  not 
fail  to  expose  themselves  ! " 

And  Mr.  Effingham's  lip  curled  with  anger  and  scorn. 

"  Presume  to  criticise  my  affairs  thus  !  "  he  continued, 
indignantly,  "  I  am  then  a  child  who  is  to  ask  permission  of 
these  worthy  gentlemen — these  potent,  grave,  and  reverend 
signers — if  I  chance  to  feel  a  wish  to  escort  a  lady  to  a  ball ! 
Yes,  a  lady,  Hamilton  !  for  by  heaven  !  I  tell  you,  that  Bea 
trice  Hallam  is  as  pure  and  high-souled  as  the  noblest  lady 
in  the  land  1  I  know  her  well,  and  to  my  cost ;  and  I  tell 
you  that  she  is  the  pearl  of  honor,  delicacy,  and  truth.  You 
may  smile,  and  I  know  well  what  causes  your  mirth.  You 
are  thinking  of  my  wild  words,  that  day  when  I  met  you 
going  out  of  town.  Well,  I  was  angry  that  day,  because 
Miss  Hallam  had  received  my  familiar  addresses  with  proper 
coldness — had  repulsed  me.  She  was  right — and  I  honor 
her  for  it  If  she  scorns  me  again,  I  may  hate  her,  and  taunt 
her  ;  bat  at  the  bottom  I  respect  and  honor  her.  You  look 
at  me  ironically  1  well,  say  I  do  love  her — say  I  am  infatu 
ated  about  her — better  men  have  made  fools  of  themselves ! 
whether  that  be  true  or  not,  one  thing  is  certain,  I  shall 
allow  no  man  to  make  a  fool  of  me !  " 

And  Mr.  Effingham  put  his  cocked  hat  on  with  a  move 
ment  which  betravcd  his  anger  arrd  indignation:  he  had 


HE    SAII     "5HAT   THE   DIE   WAS   OAST.  175 

taken  it  off  during  this  speech  to  wipe  his  brow,  moist  with 
perspiration. 

For  a  moment  Hamilton  said  nothing. 

"  Well,  Champ,"  he  replied,  at  length,  "  I  repeat  that  I 
was  a  great  fool  to  tell  you  this,  and  I  still  hope  you  will  re 
gard  these  hasty  words  I  have  reported  to  you — I  did  it  in 
the  most  friendly  spirit — in  the  light  they  should  be  re 
garded — as  the  mere  idle  talk  of  young  men.  Come,  dis 
miss  your  anger,  and  go  back  with  me.  Forget  what  I  have 
said,  and  let  the  matter  end." 

Mr.  Effingham  shook  his  head,  with  a  frown. 

"  It  will  end  otherwise,"  he  said 

"  You  will  not  go  to  the  ball  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will." 

"  With  Miss  Hallam  ?  " 

"  With  Miss  Hallam." 

"  It  will  be  a  dreadful  thing  for  you : — you  will  be 
laughed  at  all  over  the  colony." 

"  Let  them  laugh  !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  dsidainfully. 

"  You  may  even  get  a  dozen  duels  on  your  hands." 

"  Oh,  very  well ! — very  well !  I  wish  some  little  excite 
ment.  I  have  a  good  deal  of  time  on  my  hands.  I  think  it 
highly  probable  that  some  chevalier  will  espouse  the  cause 
of  outraged  society,  and  avenge  its  accumulated  wrongs  upon 
my  insignificant  person — if  I  do  not  give  an  account  of  the 
chivalrous  gentleman  myself!  "  added  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a 
scornful  pride.,  Hamilton  saw  that  he  had  raised  a  storm 
beyond  his  power  to  quell,  and  with  mingled  sorrow,  and 
self-upbraiding,  very  unusual  with  him,  led  the  way  back  to 
the  tavern  in  silence. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  they  reached  the  door,  "  I  have  used 
my  best  efforts  to  persuade  you  to  give  this  up,  Champ  :  you 
are  determined,  I  see,  and  I  know  it  is  useless  to  say  any 
more.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  as  you  are  alone,  and  the 
enemy  is  numerous,  I  shall  hold  myself  prepared  to  espouse 
your  side  in  any  thing  which  may  arise  of  a  hostile  character. 
Good  day." 

And  the  honest  fox-hunter,  refusing  to  receive  Mr.  Effing- 
ham's  assurances  of  regret,  for  any  thing  that  he  might  have 
said,  and  declining  to  enter  the  tavern,  parted  from  him,  with 
a  shake  of  the  hand,  full  of  cordiality  and  friendship.  Mr. 
Emngham  for  a  moment  looked  after  him  with  friendly  rv 


)  76       IN  WHICH  PARSON  TAG  APPEARS  AND  DISAPPEARS. 

gard,  then  the  old  gloomy  expression  usurped  its  former 
place  upon  his  visage,  and  he  ascended  to  his  chamber. 
Kate  was  not  there,  and  he  hurried  out  to  look  around  for 
her.  He  heard  voices  in  Beatrice's  room — Kate's,  he 
thought;  and  hastening  to  the  door,  opened  it  just  as  they 
were  issuing  forth  as  we  have  seen.  What  ensued  thereon, 
we  have  related. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

IN  WHICH  PARSON  TAG  APPEARS  AND  DISAPPEARS. 

"  IN  former  pages  of  this  true  history,  I  had  occasion  to  set 
down  a  few  reflections  upon  the  feelings  of  my  worthy  an 
cestor,  Mr.  Effingham,  when,  having  been  repulsed  by  the 
young  actress,  he  rode  back  to  the  hall.  I  come  now  to  say 
a  few  brief  words  of  Mr.  Charles  Waters,  another  of  the 
characters  whose  mental  development  it  is  my  duty  to  ad 
vert  to.  Charles  Waters  was,  as  the  reader  will  have  per 
ceived,  by  nature  a  student  and  thinker.  Unused  from  his 
very  childhood  to  the  amusements  and  employments  of  his 
associates,  his  character  had  assumed  a  peculiar  mould.  To 
strong  feelings  he  united  a  cool  and  self-possessed  intellect, 
and  this  intellect  he  had  trained  by  bard  study,  and  long 
and  profound  thought.  Accustomed  to  live  thus  in  the  past 
and  future,  not  in  the  present — or  if  at  all  in  the  present, 
only  so  far  as  to  examine  its  bearing  on  that  future — he  had 
grown  up  without  experiencing  any  of  those  sensations  which 
men  generally  become  acquainted  with  when  they  are  thrown 
in  contact  with  the  fairer  sex.  In  other  words,  he  had  passed 
his  majority  without  experiencing  what  is  universally  known 
by  the  name  of  love.  His  character  had  thus  become  serious, 
and  his  countenance  habitually  wore  an  expression  of  thought 
ful  quiet.  He  seldom  laughed,  and  scarcely  ever  joined  in 
the  rough,  jovial  converse  of  his  father's  guests  — the  boatman 
Townes  and  others — and  though  he  was  greatly  beloved  by 
this  class  of  persons,  and  respected  also,  this  personal  popu 
larity  was  rather  to  be  attributed  to  his  well-known  good 
ness  and  nobility  of  character  than  his  social  traits.  He 


IN  WHICH  PARSON  TAG  APPEARS  AND  DISAPPEARS.        177 

had  visited  the  theatre,  as  we  have  seen,  on  the  opening 
night,  in  compliance  with  his  father's  request,  not  from  any 
motion  of  his  own.     His  father  had  imagined  that  his  cheek 
was  pale,  his  eye  mournful,  his  health  injured,  by  those  in 
cessant  explorations  into  the  ruins  of  systems  and  nations ; 
the  play,  he  thought,  would   be  of   service  to   him  ;  and  he 
had  gone,  and  admired  Beatrice  Hallam,  and  felt  some  in 
dignation   when  Mr.  Effingham  annoyed  her — and  nothing 
more.     Then  he  had  preserved  that  young  woman's  life,  and 
there  is  much  of  significance  in  this  fact.     We  experience 
warm  regard  toward  those  we  have  greatly  served — a  young 
girl  is  never  afterwards  wholly  indifferent  to  the  man  who 
has  preserved  her  life.     He  had  felt  the  truth  of  this,  and 
required  no  urging  on  his  father's  part  to  go  and  inquire 
how  Miss  Hallam  had  borne  her  accident.     We  were  pre 
sent  at  that  interview,  and  were  witnesses  of  the  pleased 
surprise  he  betrayed  at  the  exhibition  by  Beatrice  of  such 
fresh  and  virgin  innocence  and  childlike  enthusiasm.     Ho 
came  away,  as  we  have  seen,  thinking  of  her,  and  thereafter 
for  many  days  neglected  his  books,  and  felt  at  his  heart  the 
new  and  strange  emotion  I  have  spoken  of.     Then  impelled 
by  the  desire  to  see  again  that  enchanting  face,  hear  again 
the  fresh  voice,  so  pure,  and  loving,  and  musical,  he  had 
gone  to  town  persuading  himself  that  business  required  his 
attention  there,  and  at  the  office  of  the  '  Gazette'  encoun 
tered  his  friend,  who,  at  the  conclusion  of  their  interview, 
had  conveyed  to  him  the  intelligence  that  number  seven  was 
occupied  by  Mr.  Effingham.     We  have  seen  how  his  face 
flushed  and  his  breast  labored  as  in  a  close  atmosphere.     He 
had  intended  to  visit  the  young  girl,  but  business  called  him 
away,  and  when  he  had  dispatched  it,  the  evening  began  to 
draw  on,  and  he  was  obliged  to  return  homeward.     He  re 
turned,  then,  with  that  one  thought  in  his  brain — that  one 
sensation  in  his  heart.     Persecuted — for   this  was  plainly 
persecution  on  Mr.  Effinghain's  part — loved  and  followed, 
for  this,  too,  was   as  plain — Beatrice  became  more  dear  to 
him   than    ever.     His  breast  heaved,  his  eye  flashed,   his 
haughty  lip  trembled,  and  he  passed  a  sleepless  night  think 
ing  of  her.     Then  for  th,e  first  time  he  started  at  his  own 
feelings,  and  he  felt  his  heart  throb.     He  would  be  her  pro 
tector  from  that  man,  who  had,  on  the  first  evening  of  her 


178       IN  WHICH  PARSON  TAG  APPEARS  AND  DISAPPEARS. 

Appearance,  annoyed  and  insulted  her ;  he  would  watch  over 
her,  find  if  he  really  persecuted  her — yes,  and  if  necessary, 
avenge  her !  Then  he  stopped,  like  a  horse  at  full  speed 
suddenly  checked  by  his  rider.  Where  had  his  imagination 
borne  him — what  was  he  dreaming  of?  What  interest  had 
he  in  this  young  girl  ?  say  that  he  had  preserved  her  life, 
would  not  any  courageous  man  have  done  the  same  ?  She 
was  grateful  to  him  for  that,  there  the  matter  ended ;  the 
service  rendered,  the  thanks  returned,  what  were  they  fur 
ther  but  strangers  ?  What  was  he  to  the  young  actress  ? 
The  young  actress  !  What  could  she  be  to  him  ?  She  waM 
a  bird  of  passage  with  gorgeous  wings,  and  magical  singing, 
caressed,  applauded,  swaying  all  hearts — and  he,  what  was 
he?  An  obscure  man,  without  name,  or  wealth,  or  birth; 
his  station  repelled  her,  as  her  profession  repelled  him. 

A  thousand  thoughts  like  these  chased  each  other 
through  his  mind  during  the  two  or  three  days  which  fol 
lowed  his  interview  with  the  stranger;  and  then,  drawn  as 
by  a  magical  influence — he  sought  Williamsburg  again — he 
had  an  object,  too,  as  will  be  seen. 

Thus,  the  writer  of  the  MS. :  Charles  Waters  entered 
Williamsburg,  and,  thoughtful  and  absent,  took  his  way  along 
the  main  street  toward  the  Raleigh.  Suddenly,  as  he  walked 
on  rapidly,  he  found  himself  stopped  by  an  obstruction.  He 
raised  his  head,  and  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  man 
in  the  red  cloak.  That  gentleman  was  conversing  with  no 
less  a  personage  than  Parson  Tag ;  and  when  Charles  Waters 
joined  them,  the  parson  was  about  to  pass  on.  He  scowled 
upon  the  homely-clad  man,  bowed  with  patronizing  conde 
scension  to  the  stranger,  and  with  head  borne  magisterially 
erect,  went  down  the  street. 

"  There  goes  one  of  the  lights  of  the  age — one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  church,"  said  the  stranger,  with  his  habitual 
coolness,  but  smiling  as  he  spoke,  "  the  good  Parson  Tag  I 
The  worthy  gentleman  is  indignant  to-day,  having,  from  his 
own  account,  just  quarrelled  with  his  wealthiest  parishioner 
Squire  Effingham." 

His  companion  raised  his  head  at  this  name :  and  this 
movement  did  not  escape  the  stranger's  keen  eye. 

"  Yes,"  he  added,  "  there  seems  to  have  been  some  little 
private  matter  in  tb"  busine&s.  The  squire  has  a  son,  my 


IN  WHICH  PARSON  TAG  APPEARS  AND  DISAPPEARS.        179 

neighbor  at  the  tavern — No.  7,  you  know — and  this  son, 
it  appears,  has  been  making  himself  the  subject  of  discussion, 
for  presuming  to  experience  an  honest  friendship  for  the 
young  actress,  Miss  Hallam." 

The  stranger  did  not  fail  to  note  the  troubled  and  gloomy 
look  of  his  listener,  as  they  walked  on  toward  the  Raleigh. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "the  parson  took  the  liberty  of 
condoling  with  the  worthy  squire  on  thereprobacy  of  his  son 
and,  thereby,  excited  the  rage  of  his  parishioner.  High  word 
followed — the  squire  declared,  indignantly,  that  he  would 
permit  no  one  to  insult  his  son  in  his  presence — that  it  was 
a  mere  youthful  freak  on  his  part — and  that  the  Christian 
religion  made  it  incumbent  on  all  men,  especially  parsons, 
to  exercise  a  little  of  the  spirit  of  forgiveness,  or  affect  the 
same,  if  they  had  it  not.  Tolerably  plain,  you  observe,  that 
intimation  of  his  excellency,  the  squire.  The  interview  ended 
by  the  parson's  getting  enraged,  and  declaring  he  would  no 
longer  live  in  a  parish  which  was  cursed  with  so  unreason 
able  a  member — and  by  the  squire's  replying,  with  a  bow, 
that  his  holiness  should  be  called  elsewhere,  as  the  parish 
had  long  desired.  These  are  pretty  nearly  the  facts  of  the 
interview,  I  suppose — sifted  from  the  rubbish — and  now,  it 
seems  to  be  understood  that  the  good  Parson  Tag  goes  to 
the  Piedmont  region,  and  a  Mr.  Christian — an  excellent 
name — takes  his  place.  '  A  mere  milk-and-water  family 
visitor,'  says  Parson  Tag.  Ah,  these  parsons,  these  parsons ! " 

And  the  stranger  shook  his  head,  in  a  way  which  signi 
fied  that  the  representatives  of  the  established  church  were 
far  from  occupying  a  distinguished  place  in  his  regards. 
Charles  Waters  had  listened  to  this  account  with  a  troubled 
expression,  which  did  not  escape  the  stranger.  The  name 
of  Effingham  evidently  excited  some  painful  emotion — and 
he  remained  silent,  until  they  reached  the  Raleigh.  He 
inquired  for  Miss  Hallam.  She  was  not  at  the  tavern,  but 
would  probably  come  in  soon.  He  turned  away. 

He  was  diverted  from  his  absorbing  thought,  by  feeling 
the  arm  of  the  stranger  in  his  own. 

"  Come,"  said  his  companion,  "  as  I  suppose  you  will 
wait,  in  view  of  the  fact,  that  a  lady  is  in  the  question — let 
us  sit  down  here  on  the  porch,  the  sun  is  warm  and  pleasant. 
Perhaps  we  may  wile  away  a  tedious  moment.  I  leave  thil 
place  to-day,  and  may  not  see  you  again  for  years." 


180     IN  WHICH  PARSON  TAG  APPBAS.S  AND  DISAPPEARS. 

Charles  Waters  sat  down  by  the  stranger. 

"  What  a  singular  race  these  parsons  are,"  said  the  man  in 
the  red  cloak ;  "  come,  dismiss  your  meditations,  companion, 
and  listen  to  me.  What  do  you  think  of  them  ?  " 

"  There  are  many  worthy,  not  a  few  unworthy,"  said  his 
companion,  absently. 

"  True :  but  as  they  are  an  important  element  of  our 
society,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  proportion  of  the  unworthy 
is  too  great." 

"  Yes,  sir :  they  are  a  very  influential  class,"  said  the 
other,  endeavoring  to  banish  his  thoughts. 

"  And  wealthy." 

"  Many  I  believe  are." 

"  They  love  their  tobacco  salary — but  after  all  we  can 
not  complain  of  them.  They  are  necessary,  just  as  it  is 
necessary  to  have  a  class  that  rules  and  a  class  which 
obeys." 

"  That  is  true  in  a  very  limited  sense,  sir." 

"  Why,  we  of  the  lower  orders  must  look  up  to  the 
gentlemen  :  fustian  cannot  rub  against  velvet.  The  wealthy 
gentleman  and  the  poor  laborer  cannot  associate  with  each 
other.  One  rolls  in  his  chariot,  the  other  digs  in  the  field, 
and  admires  the  grand  machine  rolling  on  with  its  liveried 
coachman,  and  glossy  four-in-hand.  The  necessity  of  the 
thing  is  as  plain  as  the  fact,  that  we  envy  these  lords  of 
creation." 

"  We  should  not,  sir." 

"  Pshaw  ! — whether  we  should  or  not,  we  always  will 
envy  and  hate  them.  We  are  poor  and  obscure ;  they  are 
distinguished  and  wealthy.  Could  a  clearer  case  be  made 
out  ?  " 

Charles  Waters  looked  at  his  interlocutor  with  the  same 
expression,  as  on  a  former  occasion,  when  the  stranger  had 
Baid,  "  All  men  are  false." 

"  To  envy  those  fortunate  possessors  of  wealth  and  ease, 
sir,  is  neither  liberal  nor  true  philosophy,"  he  said.  "  True, 
there  are  classes,  and  must  ever  be,  in  some  form ;  but 
the  poor  are  not,  and  should  not  be  the  enemies  of  the  rich 
— beyond  all,  they  should  not  base  such  enmity  upon  the 
ground  that  the  gifts  of  fortune  are  unequally  divided. 
What  a  world  we  should  have  if  that  ^vere  so !  We  havo 


WHAT  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK  CAUGHT.     181 

here  in  Virginia  all  grades  of  wealth  and  rank,  from  that  negro 
yonder  rubbing  down  his  horse,  to  Governor  Fauquier  in  his 
palace.  We  have  first,  the  rude  ignorant  servant  indented 
for  a  term  of  years,  and  almost  an  appendage  of  the  glebe — 
almost  as  much  a  slave  as  the  negro.  Then  the  coarse 
overseer,  scarcely  better.  Then  the  small  merchant,  factor, 
and  the  yeoman,  plain  in  manners,  often  very  ignorant — but 
a  step  higher.  Then  the  well-to-do  farmer.  Lastly,  the 
great  landed  proprietors,  with  thousands  of  acres  and  negroes, 
wearing  velvet  and  riding  in  chariots,  as  you  say.  Well, 
now  sir,  apply  your  philosophy  !  Let  the  well-to-do  farmer 
hate  the  great  wealthy  gentleman — the  common  yeoman  hate 
the  farmer  and  the  gentleman — the  overseer  hate  all  three — 
and  the  indented  servant,  following  the  example  of  his  bet 
ters,  hate  all  four  of  them,  where  would  the  clashing  of  these 
complex  hatreds,  these  inimical  and  bitter  envyings,  have 
their  termination?  No,  sir,"  said  Charles  Waters,  raising 
his  noble  head,  and  speaking  in  that  earnest  and  persuasive 
voice,  which  it  was  hard  to  resist  being  moved  and  convinced 
by — even  by  its  very  intonation — "  No,  sir :  believe  me-  - 
these  harsh  and  bitter  feelings  retard  the  advance  of  our 
race,  rather  than  forward  its  destiny.  No  sir — no  1  hatred 
is  not  the  element  of  progress,  as  envy  and  uncharitableness 
are  not  the  precursors  of  liberty  1 " 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

HOW  THE  MAN  IN   THE  BED  CLOAK  THREW  HIS  NET,  AND  WHAT 
HE  CAUGHT. 

THE  stranger  was  silent  for  some  moments,  then,  drawing  his 
old  red  cloak  around  him,  he  said : 

"  Liberty !  Well,  that  is  a  great  word ;  but,  unfortu 
nately,  it  is  also  one  of  those  nobly-sounding  terms  which 
fill  the  ears  only,  never  jonveying  to  the  brain  much  more 
than  a  vague  and  doubtful  meaning.  What  is  liberty  ? 
True,  I  ask  you  to  answer  a  hard  question  ;  but  you  have 
drawn  it  upon  yourself,  companion,  by  your  anomalous  and 
contradictory  statement*  " 


.82          WHAT   THE    iAtt    IN    THE  RED    CLOAK   CAUGHT. 

"  How  contradictory,  sir  ?  "  said  his  companion,  losing 
his  absent-mindedness,  and  looking  earnestly  at  the  stranger. 

"  Why,"  replied  the  man  in  the  red  cloak,  coolly, 
"  nothing  could  well  be  more  paradoxical  than  your  views. 
You  agree  that  there  are  classes  here,  and  elsewhere,  sepa 
rated  by  unreasonable  distinctions,  holding,  as  regards  each 
other,  unjust  positions.  You  do  not  deny  that  we — we,  the 
common  people — are  the  mere  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers 
of  water  for  our  masters,  and,  when  I  chance  to  say  what  ia 
perfectly  reasonable  and  natural,  namely,  that  we  must  hate 
and  envy  these  dons,  why.  you  answer,  '  No,  no  ;  envy  and 
hatred  are  not  the  elements  of  progress,  the  forerunners  of 
liberty.'  I  say,  they  rule  us  ! — the  wealthy  gentlemen,  the 
house  of  burgesses,  the  English  parliament — why  not  hate 
and  envy,  and,  if  necessary,  match  ourselves  force  for  force 
against  them,  and  see  if  we  cannot  achieve  this  noble  end 
you  speak  of — liberty  !  " 

u  Because  force — the  blind  force  of  envy  and  hatred, 
striking  in  the  dark,  and  without  thought— is  the  mere 
movement  of  the  brute,  who  closes  his  eyes,  and  tears,  with 
out  seeing,  whatever  comes  beneath  his  paws.  No,  sir ! 
before  we  can  overturn  parliaments,  and  dictate  laws,  we 
must  mould  public  opinion." 

"  Public  opinion  ?     What  is  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  great  unseen  power  which  governs  the  world." 

"  Oh  yes  ;  the  opinion  of  kings  and  autocrats.  Now  I 
understand." 

"  No,  not  of  kings  and  autocrats — of  common  men,  the 
masses !  The  calm,  just  judgment,  formed  in  silence,  and 
without  prejudice,  of  those  men  and  things  which  figure  on 
the  great  stage  of  life.  Not  the  mere  impulses  of  envy  and 
hatred,  any  more  than  the  jealousy  of  rank,  but  the  cool, 
deliberate  weighing  of  events  and  personages  in  the  scales 
of  eternal  justice." 

"  Fine  words.  Well,  then,  you  would  not  overthiow  the 
present  state  of  things ;  or,  perhaps,  you  are  well  content 
with  the  social  organization  of  this  colony.  We  must  not 
hate,  we  must  not  envy — all  is  for  the  best  1  " 

"  No,  sir,  all  is  not  for  the  best ;  far  from  it." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  we  are  wandering  in  our  ideas,  and 
liable  to  misunderstand  each  other.  Let  us  see,  now — explain. 


WHAT   THE    MAN    IN    THE   RED    CLOAfc    CAUGHT.  183 

You  are  more  or  less  dissatisfied  with  the  present  position 
of  things  ;  but  you  like  the  gentry,  the  Established  Church, 
you  admire  the  traditions  of  feudalism,  and  revere  his  gra 
cious  majesty  King  George.  Eh?  Come,  let  us  know  if 
you  do  not  ?  " 

"  We  must  have  misunderstood  each  other,  indeed,  sir. 
I  would  overthrow — or,  at  least,  materially  change — all  that 
you  have  mentioned." 

"  What,  the  gentry — the  church— the  king  ?     Treason  ! ' 

"  That  cry  does  not  daunt  me,  sir." 

"  Beware  ;  I  shall  inform  on  you,  and  his  majesty  will 
send  for  you  to  come  and  visit  his  handsome  residence,  called 
the  Tower." 

"  Let  me  explain,  briefly,  what  I  mean,  and  meant,"  said 
his  companion,  too  gloomy  to  relish  these  pleasantries  of  the 
stranger.  "  You  have  misunderstood  me  wholly — you  would 
say  that  I  am  an  advocate  of  the  present,  with  all  its  injus 
tice,  its  wrong,  its  oppression ;  and,  that,  because  I  am  not 
willing  to  go  and  turn  out  proprietors  of  great  landed  estates, 
at  the  point  of  the  bayonet ;  shatter  those  splendid  mirrors, 
which  reflect  gold,  and  velvet,  and  embroidery,  with  a  pistol's 
muzzle ;  organize  the  lower  class,  with  bludgeons,  hay-forks, 
cleavers,  knives,  and  scythes,  against  the  gentlemen,  who  roll 
in  coaches,  and  eat  from  gold  and  silver  plate — you  would 
say,  that,  because  these  revolutionary  proceedings,  the  off 
spring  of  envy  and  hatred,  are  not  to  my  taste,  I  am  an  ad 
vocate  of  those  oppressions,  those  bitter  wrongs,  inflicted  on 
the  commons  by  the  gentry.  No,  sir !  I  am  not  an  advo 
cate  of  them;  I  know  them  too  well.  I  have  studied,  as 
far  as  possible,  with  a  calm  mind,  an  unbiassed  judgment, 
this  vestige  of  feudalism  which  curses  us,  and  I  have  found,  • 
every  where,  as  in  the  old  feudal  system,  wrong,  oppres 
sion,  a  haughty  and  unchristian  pride  of  rank,  and  birth, 
and  wealth — " 

"  Good,  good,"  said  the  stranger,  no  longer  interrupting 
his  companion. 

"  An  unjustifiable  pride  !  an  unchristian  arrogance, 
scorning  charity,  humility,  all  that  Christ  inculcated,  as  so 
much  weakness  ! "  continued  the  thinker,  in  his  noble  and 
earnest  voice ;  "  I  find  it  here,  as  I  find  it  in  the  history  of 
England,  of  France,  of  Germany,  of  the  whole  feudal  world ; 


!4    WHAT  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK  CAUGHT. 

among  the  gentry  of  to-day,  as  the  nobles  of  the  middle  age  ? 
Q-o  back  to  that  middle  age — see  the  great  lord  passing  in 
his  splendid  armor,  and  surcoat  of  cloth  of  gold,  on  his  glos 
sy  charger,  followed  by  his  squires,  his  men-at-arms,  while 
the  battlements  of  his  great  castle  ring  with  trumpets,  greet 
ing  his  return  :  see  the  serf  there  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
with  the  ring  around  his  neck,  with  his  wooden  shoes,  his 
goatskin  covering — swarthy,  with  his  shaggy  beard,  his  brow 
covered  with  perspiration,  as  becomes  the  villein,  his  cere 
bral  conformation,  as  he  takes  off  his  greasy  cap  to  lout  low 
to  his  master,  like  the  head  of  the  wolf,  the  jackall,  the 
hyena.  That  serf  is  no  longer  a  man — he  is  a  wild  beast, 
with  strong  muscles  and  sinews  like  rope,  who  will  fight  well 
in  the  field,  and  be  cut  to  pieces  cheerfully,  while  his  master 
reaps  undying  renown,  covered  by  his  proof  armor  of  Milan 
— yes,  he  will  fight  and  toil,  and  go  home  and  kiss  his  chil 
dren  in  their  mud  hovel — but  he  is  not  a  man  :  his  lord  is  a 
man — how  can  he  be  of  the  same  race  as  that  splendid  and 
haughty  chevalier,  honored  by  kings  and  emperors  for  his 
deeds  of  chivalry,  smiled  on  by  fair  ladies  every  where,  like 
the  noble  dame  who  reigns  in  yonder  castle  with  him.  True, 
the  serf  has  legs  and  arms,  and  his  blood,  strange  to  say,  is 
much  the  color  of  the  great  seigneur's — but  they  do  not  be 
long  to  the  same  race  of  animals.  They  both  feel  it — are 
convinced  of  it.  When  my  lord  passes,  see  the  back  bent 
down ;  the  eyes  abased,  as  in  the  presence  of  the  God  of 
Day — the  dog-like  submission,  when  harsh  words  are  uttered 
by  the  seigneur  to  his  animal.  The  serf  does  not  dream  of 
there  being  any  impropriety  in  all  this — it  is  a  part  of  the 
order  of  things  that  he  should  be  a  wild  beast,  his  lord  a 
splendid,  noble  chevalier,  glittering  with  stars,  and  clad  in 
soft  silk  and  velvet.  He  always  submits :  he  is  a  part  of 
the  glebe,  the  stock — like  the  horse,  the  hound,  the  hawk. 
Does  the  seigneur  wish  some  amusement  for  his  noble 
guests  ? — the  boor  comes,  and  with  another  of  his  class 
cudgels  away  in  the  court-yard,  until  he  is  covered  with 
bruises,  and  falls  or  conquers  :  and  the  noble  lords  and 
ladies,  glittering  like  stars  in  the  balcony,  throw  largesse  to 
the  knaves,  who  lout  humbly,  and  go  down  to  their  proper 
place — the  kitchen.  "  There  is  the  past,  sir  ! — look  at  it !  " 


WHAT  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK  CAUGHT.     185 

The  stranger  nodded. 

fi  You  don't  like  feudalism,"  he  said. 

"  It  makes  me  shudder,  sir." 

"  How  ?  why  it's  dead  !  " 

"  No  :  it  is  alive." 

"  Alive,  say  you  ?  " 

"  To  this  very  day  and  hour." 

"  What  ?  in  full  force  ?  " 

"  No,  sir — not  in  full  force  :  far  from  it.  But  in  a  de 
gree,  at  least,  it  exists." 

"  Hum  !  you  are  a  metaphysician." 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  practical." 

"  You  are  a  dreamer  1  " 

Waters  sighed. 

"  I  thought  you  dreamed  as  I  did,"  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  I  do — who  knows  ?  " 

Waters  was  silent. 

"  Define  your  idea,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I  understand 
you  to  say — and  we  won't  discuss  the  subject — that  this 
thing  we  call  feudalism — which  has  come  in  for  so  much 
abuse  from  you,  still  exists  in  a  degree  ?  Come  !  let  us  see 
how  it  looks  in  Virginia." 

"  We  have  but  the  shadow — thank  God,  the  edifice  has 
crumbled  in  part :  but  the  flanking  towers  remain,  and  that 
shadow  still  lies  like  gloom  upon  the  land.  See  how  human 
thought  is  still  warped  and  darkened  by  it — how  rank  and 
unwholesome  weeds  possess  the  earth  !  " 

"  Hoot  out  these  weeds,  then — begin  !  Hurl  down  these 
towers  which  shut  out  the  sunlight, — your  historical  reading 
must  have  told  you  of  the  Jacquerie  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir  !  and  I  have  seen  -how  that  rising  led  to  worse 
evils  than  before,  for  hatred  was  added  to  contempt.  No, 
to  attack  this  still  vigorous  remnant  of  feudalism,  something 
besides  hammers  and  pickaxes  are  necessary ;  gunpowder, 
even,  will  not  blow  it  into  atoms  1 " 

"  What,  then  ?  " 

The  winds  of  Heaven  !  God  will  strike  it ;  he  has 
thrown  down  the  donjon  keep,  where  captives  gnashed  their 
teeth  and  cursed  and  blasphemed  in  darkness ;  he  will  alsc 


86    WHAT  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK  CAUGHT. 

level  with  the  ground  what  remains  of  the  great  blot  upoi 
the  landscape  1 " 

"  Figures,  figures  1 "  said  the  stranger  ;  "  come,  let  us 
have  ideas  1 " 

"  By  the  winds  of  Heaven — the  breath  of  God — I  mean 
those  eternally  progressive  steps  of  mind,  which  go  from 
doubt  to  certainty,  from  certainty  to  indignation,  from  indig 
nation  to  revolution  ! " 

"  Very  well ;  now  we  get  on  firm  ground  again.  We 
meet  and  shake  hands  over  that  toast,  '  Revolution  ! '  " 

"  Understand  me  ;  revolution  is  not  a  slight  thing.  It 
levels  many  valuable  things,  as  the  hurricane  and  the  tem 
pest  of  rain  sweeps  away  much  more  than  the  accumulated 
rubbish.  Revolution,  sir,  is  the  last  thing  of  all — the  tor 
nado  which  clears  the  poisonous  atmosphere,  cannot  be 
loosed  every  day  or  year,  for  the  land  is  strewed  with  ruins 
by  it.  The  slow  steps  of  public  opinion  must  be  hastened, 
the  soil  prepared  for  the  seed,  the  distance  made  plain,  the 
body  armed — then,  if  it  is  necessary,  the  conflict." 

"  Ah,  you  come  back  to  your  ideas  upon  education,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  would  unfetter  the  mind." 

"  Enlighten  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  would  teach  the  great  mass  of  the  people, 
that  God  made  this  world,  not  man  ;  that  wrong  and  oppres 
sion  is  not  the  normal  state  of  human  things  ;  I  would  point 
out  all  th>  falseness,  I  would  point  to  the  lash-marks  on  the 
back ;  I  would,  if  necessary,  pour  brine  into  those  bleeding 
furrows  ! " 

"  Yes,  and  drive  to  madness — to  what  you  deprecate, 
mad  violence  1 " 

"  No  1  for  minds  would  be  enlightened,  men  would  see — 
and  seeing,  they  would  wait.  I  would  have  them  know 
when  to  strike  ;  I  would  organize  in  their  minds  an  oppo 
sition,  quiet,  stubborn,  unbending,  never-sleeping ;  a  confi 
dence  in  time,  faith  in  the  ultimate  intervention  of  God 
using  them  as  his  instruments." 

"  You  generalize  too  much,"  said  the  stranger  ;  "  let  us 
come  now  to  Virginia,  at  this  day  and  hour.  Let  us  see 
what  are  the  great  abuses.  Speak  1 " 

"  First,  an  established  church,  which  dictates  religious 
opinion — forces  itself  upon  all  the  community,  armed  with 
the  terrors  of  the  law-" 


WHAT  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLCAK  CAUGHT.     187 

"  Yes,  that  is  just ;  and  I  promise  you  something  will 
l*e  said  soon  about  the  twopenny-act.  Well,  the  church  I 
What  else  ?  " 

"  The  offspring  of  that  feudalism  I  have  spoken  of— 
aristocracy  I " 

"  Yes,  '  power  of  the  best ; '  that  is,  the  wealthiest. 
What  next  ?  " 

"  Laws,  without  representation  ! "  said  his  companion, 
compressing  in  these  short  words  the  great  popular  griev 
ance  of  the  age. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  stranger,  with  a  grim  smile,  "  there  is 
something  in  that,  too.  What  more  ?  " 

"  What  more  ?  Is  it  not  enough,  sir,  for  the  Established 
Church  to  wring  from  you,  whether  you  conform  or  not, 
support  for  its  ministers — to  stuff  itself  and  its  tenets  down 
your  throat  ?  is  it  not  bad  enough  for  the  house  of  bur 
gesses  to  legislate  for  the  great  landed  proprietors  alone, 
who  form  the  body,  ignoring  the  very  existence  of  the  com 
mon  man,  who  has  no  vote  ?  is  any  thing  more  needed  to 
make  us  slaves,  than  laws  passed  in  the  English  parliament, 
crushing  our  trade,  our  very  lives,  without  representatives 
of  us  there  in  council  ?  " 

"  I  confess  that  seems  to  me  quite  enough,"  said  the 
stranger ;  "  and  this  great,  oppressive,  intolerant  church — 
this  haughty  arrogance  of  rank — lastly,  that  English  law 
lessness,  seem  to  me  to  constitute  a  case  of  mortification — 
gangrene — to  be  burnt  out  by  the  hot  iron  of  revolution  ! " 

"  No  !  it  has  not  gone  far  enough  yet ;  let  us  advance 
step  by  step.  At  present  we  contemplate  that  great,  intole 
rant,  bigoted  establishment  with  respect  and  awe ;  we  bow 
to  the  grand  chariot,  doffing  our  caps ;  we  search  in  our 
minds  for  what  will  justify  that  oppression  of  Parliament  J 
we  are  not  convinced  that  this  great  triple  wrong  is  a  wrong. 
We  doubt ;  let  us  scan  the  matter  calmly — dispassionately 
investigate  the  nature  of  things ;  let  us  educate  our  minds,  we 
common  people,  and  with  the  calm,  unobscured  eyes  of  truth, 
test  the  error.  We  will  not  say  to  the  parsons,  '  Off  with 
you,  you  are  the  vermin  of  a  rotten  system,  you  shall  not 
tyrannize  over  us  1 '  No,  let  us,  with  the  Bible  in  our  hands, 
and  God  in  our  hearts,  say,  '  We  come  to  try  you,  we  coma 
to  know  whether  you  are  false  and  bigoted,  or  true  au4 


188    WHAT  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK  CAUGHT. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  "  and  those  worthy  gentle 
men,  who  procured  benefices  by  marrying  the  cast-off  mis 
tresses  of  lords,  will,  with  one  voice,  for  about  the  space  pf 
two  hours,  cry,  '  Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians  1  W« 
are  holy,  pure,  and  immaculate  ! '  What,  then  ?  " 

"  Reason  !  the  light  of  education  still !  flooding  the  whole 
system,  lighting  up  every  hidden  crypt !  " 

"  Good  !  And  you  would  apply  these  fine  ideas  to  the 
aristocracy,  too  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  would  have  men  scan  that  system  also  ;  not 
strike  it  blindly  ;  I  would  have  them  come  with  the  law  of 
nature  in  their  hands,  the  evangel  of  truth  and  justice,  and 
say,  '  Show  us  what  you  are.  Show  us  if  you  are  really 
our  natural  and  rightful  superiors.  Show  us  whether  those 
titles  you  derive  from  kings,  are  like  the  authority  of  those 
kings,  derived,  as  they  say,  from  God,  and  so,  just  and  right. 
Show  us  if  you  are  really  superior  beings,  because  you  de 
scend  from  the  knights  of  the  middle  age — we  inferior  to 
you,  your  born  slaves,  because  we  draw  our  blood  from 
the  serf  who  tilled  the  glebe  below  your  grandsire's  castle 
walls.  Show  us  if  this  mysterious  sentiment  of  awe  we  feel 
in  your  presence,  is  direct  from  the  Deity,  planted  thus  in 
us  to  make  us  keep  our  places ;  or,  whether  it  is  the  mere 
tradition  of  the  past,  the  echo  of  injustice,  the  shadow  of 
that  monstrous  oppression  of  the  dark  ages,  yet  lying  on  our 
souls  ?  " 

"  Very  well — and  what  then  ? "  said  the  stranger. 
"  Why,  these  worthy  gentlemen  would  reply,  ;  Friends,  the 
distinction  of  classes  is  absolutely  necessary;  some  must 
rule,  others  obey ;  some  wear  fustian,  others  velvet ;  some 
must  ride  in  coaches,  and  eat  from  gold  plate,  others  jog  along 
in  the  dust  of  the  highway,  eat  their  brown  bread  and  swill 
their  muddy  ale.  Order  is  heaven's  first  law.  Come,  now, 
and  listen  to  this  splendid  passage  from  Shakspeare,  about 
degrees  in  a  state ;  it  is  there,  in  that  volume  with  a  gilt 
back  iu  the  gothic  book-case — don't  muddy  the  carpet  with 
your  dirty  brogues,  or  stumble  over  that  damask  chair  in 
reaching  it.  Very  welL  Now,  listen !  Can  any  thing  be 
more  just  than  these  views  ?  Some  must  be  great,  others 
small ;  one  must  vote,  another  be  denied  that  privilege.  We 
are  gentlemen,  you  commouors.  Can  any  thing  be  plainer, 


WHAT  THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  CLOAK  CAUGHT.     189 

than  that  we  should  have  the  offices  and  honors,  live  easily, 
and  sustain  our  proper  rank,  while  you  till  the  glehe,  and 
leave  your  interests  in  our  hands  ?  '  That  is  what  they  would 
say — what  then  ?  " 

"  Reason,  again  1 "  said  his  companion  ;  "  reason,  turning 
away  from  the  dazzling  pageant,  stopping  the  ears  to  shut 
out  the  rumbling  of  the  coach  and  six,  forgetting  the  past 
and  questioning  that  great  evangel  of  right  open  in  their 
hands — reason,  which  should  weigh  and  test,  and  try  the 
whole  system  by  the  rules  of  a  stern,  inexorable  logic." 

"  I  admire  your  logic  !  and  you  think  that  it  would  ap 
ply  to  English  legislation  on  Virginia  matters  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  would  remonstrate,  petition,  debate  with  Par 
liament;  I  would  exhaust  every  means  of  testing  and  over 
throwing  this  cruel  and  bitter  wrong ;  I  would  ask  for  light 
— ask  nothing  but  that  right  should  be  made  manifest — I 
would  go  to  the  foot  of  the  throne,  and  say, (  Justice,  justice, 
nothing  but  justice,  as  a  British  subject — as  one  laboring 
under  wrong  1 '  " 

The  stranger's  lip  curled. 

"  Well,  your  system  is  now  tolerably  plain,"  he  said. 
"  You  would  go  and  ask  the  parsons  to  tell  you  if  they  are 
in  truth,  pure  and  immaculate — you  would  ask  the  gentry  if 
they  really  are  the  distinguished  gentlemen  they  pretend  to 
be — you  would  fall  at  the  feet  of  King  George,  and  sue  for 
leave  to  argue  the  matter  of  taxation  with  his  gracious  Ma 
jesty  !  Very  well.  Now,  suppose — it  is  a  very  extrava 
gant  supposition,  I  know,  and  springs,  no  doubt,  from  my 
irreverent,  incredulous,  and  obstinate  prejudices — suppose,  I 
say,  that  the  worthy  parsons  thus  adjured,  as  to  their  purity, 
were  to  tell  you  that  they  were  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and 
that  your  question  was  an  impertinence  ;  suppose — if  you  can 
suppose  such  an  incredible  thing — that  the  wealthy  gentle 
man  tells  you  that  he  is  your  born  lord,  and  that  he  will 
commit  you  in  his  quality  of  justice  of  the  peace,  for  misde 
meanor,  should  you  intrude  upon  him  again  with  your 
wretched  folly ;  suppose  his  gracious  Majesty  were  to  re 
move  your  humble  petition  with  his  royal  foot,  bidding 
you  begone,  and  learn  that  when  money  was  wanted  to  sup 
port  his  splendor,  you  were  to  sweat  and  pay  it,  and  be 
silent  on  pain  of  being  whipped  in  by  armed  soldiers ;  sup- 


190  IN    WHICH    BEATRICE    A.ETURN8. 

pose  these  disagreeable  incidents  greeted  your  philanthrope 
exertions — what  then  ?  " 

"  Then,  revolution  !  revolution,  if  that  revolution  waded 
in  blood  ! "  cried  his  companion,  carried  away  by  his  fiery 
thoughts,  and  losing  all  his  calmness  and  self-control ;  "  revo 
lution,  with  God  for  our  judge  !  history  for  our  vindication 
If,  after  all  their  sufferings,  all  their  wrongs,  all  the  injusticft 
of  long  years,  of  centuries,  the  prayers  of  humanity  were 
thus  answered — revolution !  A  conflict,  bitter,  desperate, 
unyielding,  to  the  death !  A  conflict  which  should  root  out 
these  foul  and  monstrous  wrongs,  or  exterminate  us  !  A 
revolution,  which  should  attack  and  overwhelm  for  ever,  or 
be  itself  overwhelmed  !  That  is  the  hurricane  I  spoke  of, 
sir  1  If  God  decrees  it,  let  it  come  1 " 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

IN  WHICH  BEATRICE  RETURNS. 

WITH  head  erect,  brows  flushed,  eyes  clear  and  fiery,  lips 
still  agitated  by  the  tumult  of  thought,  the  speaker  was 
silent.  His  eyes  then  turned  toward  the  stranger. 

A  singular  alteration  seemed  to  have  taken  place  in  his 
features,  and  the  expression  of  grandeur  and  majesty  which 
illuminated  the  rugged  features,  usually  so  cold,  was  start 
ling. 

The  stranger's  expression  was  so  noble,  his  eye  so  bright 
and  proud,  his  whole  manner  so  completely  changed,  that 
his  companion  found  himself  gazing  at  him  with  an  astonish 
ment  which  he  could  not  suppress. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  the  man  in  the  red  cloak,  in  a 
voice  of  noble  courtesy,  strongly  in  contrast  with  his  habitual 
roughness ;  "  pardon  me  for  the  manner  in  which  I  have 
seemed  to  sift  your  opinions,  and  provoke  a  collision  of  your 
ideas  with  my  own,  in  this  and  our  former  interviews.  It  ia 
one  of  the  bad  habits  which  I  acquired  in  a  country  store, 
and  I  find  myself  now  its  slave — since  the  temptation  to 
open  and  study  that  grand  volume,  human  nature,  wherever 
I  find  it,  has  become  irresistible.  In  your  case,  I  have  been 


IN    WHICH   BEATRICE   RETURNS.  191 

instructed  and  interested ;  and  though  I  say  with  a  frank« 
ness  which  you  may  consider  rude,  that  I  have  thought  most 
of  your  thoughts  before — still,  sir,  permit  me  to  return  you 
my  thanks  for  an  honor  and  a  pleasure." 

The  haughtiest  nobleman  in  the  world  would  not  have 
found  in  these  words,  uttered  by  the  coarsely-clad  stranger 
on  the  rude  tavern  porch,  to  a  man  of  the  people  like  him 
self,  any  thing  to  cater  to  his  laughter  or  amusement ;  for 
the  man  in  the  red  cloak  seemed  no  longer  to  be  coarsely 
dressed ;  his  pronunciation  no  longer  appeared  vicious  and 
incorrect ;  the  very  porch  of  the  tavern  seemed  to  be  trans 
formed  by  his  magical  voice  and  look  into  a  palace  portico. 

"  In  all  your  views  I  concur,"  continued  the  stranger, 
"  and  your  ideas  are  mine.  God  himself  placed  us  in  the 
condition  we  both  find  ourselves  in,  that  mind  might  speak 
to  mind,  freely,  sympathetically,  with  that  frankness  and 
plainness  from  which  Truth  springs,  armed,  ready  for  the 
conflict." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  the  stranger,  with  that  high  and 
proud  look  which  his  companion  had  observed  once  in  a 
former  interview.  "  Yes,  sir!  this  Virginia  of  1763  is  in 
an  unhappy  state  !  Social  organization  to-day,  with  the  in 
fluences  that  environ  it,  is  one  of  those  phenomena  which 
occur  but  once  in  a  century.  On  all  sides  murmurs,  mut- 
terings  as  of  an  approaching  storm  !  Men  doubtful  of  the 
ground  they  walk  on — new  ideas  dazzling  them — old  institu 
tions  crumbling — the  hand  upon  the  wall  tracing,  in  fiery 
letters,  the  mysterious  future — that  future  crammed  with 
storms — groaning  like  a  womb  which  holds  the  destiny  of 
humanity !  The  heavens  are  dark,  the  ways  we  tread 
devious  and  full  of  hidden  snares.  England,  our  tender 
mother,  might  say,  who  planted  them  ?  For  England,  from 
whose  loins  we  sprung,  has  cursed  us ! — like  a  stepmother, 
she  has  struck,  with  a  bitter  and  remorseless  hatred,  those 
who  would  be  her  children  1  She  cursed  us  with  this  race 
of  Africans  who  are  eating  us  up  and  ruining  us,  and  some 
day,  in  the  blind  convulsions  of  her  rage,  she  will  taunt  us 
bitterly  for  asking  what  we  do  not  grant  ourselves — for  de 
manding  freedom,  when  our  arms  are  holding  down  a  race 
human  as  ourselves  !  Let  her  gnash  her  teeth  in  impotent 
and  irrational  complaint ! — let  her  complain,  we  will  not ; 


192  a*   WHICH   BEATRICE   RETURNS. 

for  God  decreed  that  she  herself,  black  with  crime  and  in 
justice,  should  be  the  means  of  bringing  hither  this  race, 
that  in  the  future  Christianity  should  dawn  on  that  vast  con 
tinent  of  Africa — that  land  where  the  very  air  seems  tainted 
with  paganism — where  the  very  palms  which  wave  their  long 
plumes  on  the  ocean  breeze  seem  celebrating  some  horrible 
rite  !  No ;  this  is  not  the  head  and  front  of  the  accusation 
which,  in  the  name  of  justice  and  humanity,  we  bring  against 
England.  She  has  thrust  upon  us  her  despotic  regulations. 
She  has  contracted  suffrage.  She  has  given  to  Lord  Cul- 
peper  the  whole  territory  from  the  mouth  of  the  Rappa- 
hannock  to  the  sources  of  the  Potomac — enthroned  him  a 
prince  and  king  over  us !  She  has  crushed  our  commerce 
by  navigation  laws  which  are  so  odious  and  unrighteous  that 
jhe  very  instruments  of  her  tyranny  shrink  from  enforcing 
them  !  With  a  blind,  remorseless  hatred — a  policy  destitute 
of  reason  as  it  is  foul  with  injustice  and  wrong — she  has 
bound  on  this  poor  laboring  brute,  Virginia,  burdens  which 
crush  her,  under  which  she  staggers,  groaning,  and  tearing 
herself  with  rage,  terror,  and  despair  !  She  has  made  for 
herself  a  gospel  whose  commandments  are — '  Thou  shalt 
steal ' — '  Thou  shalt  bear  false  witness  against  thy  neigh 
bor' — 'Thou  sbalt  have  no  other  god  but  George  II  I.'  She 
has  gone  on  from  wrong  to  wrong,  from  injustice  to  injustice, 
until  like  those  unhappy  creatures  whom  the  gods  intend  to 
strike,  she  has  grown  mad,  lost  her  brain,  her  reason,  braced 
herself  to  rush  upon  an  obstacle  which  will  hurl  her  back,  as 
a  wave  of  the  ocean  is  hurled  back  from  the  cliff  of  eternal 
stone !  Yes,  sir,  that  empire  rushes  upon  what  will  tame 
her  1  Already  she  speaks  of  an  act  decreeing  that  a  stamp 
shall  be  placed  upon  every  instrument  written  or  printed  of 
human  affairs.  Journals,  deeds,  conveyances — pleadings  in 
law,  bills  of  lading — on  the  marriage  contract,  and  the  bill 
for  the  headstone — nothing  to  be  operative  without  that 
stamp !  Well,  sir,  that  act  will  make  the  cup  filled  with  the 
bittor  and  poisonous  draught  run  over — that  law  will  make 
the  infuriated  animal,  thrown  on  her  knees,  rise  up,  and 
then,  sir,  God  alone  knows  where  things  will  end  1  You  wish 
to  wait  and  let  the  old  world  pass  away  by  virtue  of  its  in 
herent  decay,  its  immemorial  rottenness — you  would  have 
the  crumbling  monument  of  wrong  fall  slowly,  stone  by 


tN   WHICH   BEATRICE   RETURNS.  193 

•tone,  as  the  winds  and  rain  descend  upon  it  year  after  year ! 
Such  will  not  be  the  event,  sir  !  The  tornado  you  spoke  of 
will  bring  down  that  godless  monument,  at  one  blow,  with 
a  crash  that  will  startle  nations !  And  do  not  think  that 
this  is  not  as  legitimately  God's  act  as  the  slow  ruin  you 
advocate.  That  Great  Being  unlooses  the  hurricane  of  re 
volution  as  easily  as  he  sends  the  zephyr  to  cool  the  cheek, 
each  in  its  place  ! — the  hurricane  here  !  You  may  even  now 
scent  the  odor  of  the  storm  !  " 

And  the  stranger  rose  with  such  grandeur  in  his  visage, 
such  majesty  in  his  attitude,  such  a  clear  fire  in  his  proud 
eyes,  which  seemed  to  plunge  into  the  mysterious  future,  and 
see  with  the  vision  of  a  prophet  all  which  that  future  was  to 
bring,  that  his  companion  felt  himself  overwhelmed,  he  knew 
not  how,  carried  away  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  It  is  coming !  "  continued  he,  with  indescribable  gran 
deur  in  voice  and  countenance  and  attitude ;  "  the  storm  which 
will  topple  down  the  edifice  of  fraud  and  lies,  which  has  so 
long  shamed  the  sunlight ! — in  that  storm  old  things  shall 
pass  away,  and  behold !  all  things  shall  become  new.  The  old 
world  is  decayed,  she  totters  on  the  brink  of  the  abyss  pre 
pared  for  her : — she  rushes  on,  blindly,  full  of  curses,  and 
hatred — the  gulf  yawns — let  her  foot  trip,  she  is  swallowed 
up  for  ever  !  " 

And  the  brilliant  eye  seemed  to  grow  brighter  still,  the 
voice  became  more  clear  and  strong.  The  rude  visage  of  the 
speaker  glowed  as  if  the  light  of  a  great  conflagration  stream 
ed  upon  it.  His  stature  seemed  almost  to  grow  before  his 
companion's  eyes,  and  become  gigantic,  his  two  hands  to  be 
filled  with  thunderbolts  ! 

"  Yes,  sir  !  yes  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  the  storm  comes ! — 
the  tocsin  of  a  revolution  is  already  being  sounded  !  Ere 
long  the  clash  of  arms  will  fall  upon  our  ears,  the  sound  of 
firearms  and  the  roar  of  cannon.  War  and  storm,  tempest 
and  hurricane,  are  waiting,  like  hounds  held  back  by  the  leash, 
to  burst  upon  this  land.  Let  it  come  !  let  the  storm  roar, 
the  lightning  flash,  the  waves  roll  mountain  high — God  still 
directs  that  storm,  and  will  fight  for  us !  Let  the  bloody 
dogs  of  war  be  loosed,  let  them  dye  their  sharp  fangs  in 
blood,  they  shall  not  daunt  u\  I  repeat  it,  sir, — let  it  come  ! 

9 


194  HOW   BEATRICE   PRAYED   FOR    STRENGTH 

I,  for  one,  will  grapple  with  the  monster,  and  strangle  or  b« 
strangled  by  him  I  Liberty  or  death  1  " 

And  the  man  in  the  red  cloak,  with  a  gesture  of  over 
whelming  grandeur,  stood  silent,  motionless,  his  eyes  on  fire, 
his  hands  clenched  as  though  the  struggle  depicted  by  his 
brilliant  and  fiery  imagination  were  about  to  begin.  Charles 
Waters,  carried  away  by  his  tremendous  passion  could  make 
no  reply,  and  they  both  remained  silent. 

The  stranger  wiped  his  brow,  and  drew  his  cloak  around 
him :  then  gazing  on  his  companion  with  an  expression  of 
nobility  and  pride,  which  glowed  in  his  eyes  and  filled  them 
with  light,  said : 

"  And  now,  sir,  we  must  part.  I  go  hence  to  day,  hav 
ing  yesterday  been  retained  in  an  important  cause  in  Hano 
ver  county,  Drought  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Maury  against 
the  collector.  I  am  for  the  defendant,  and  must  prepare 
myself  for  a  hard  struggle.  Permit  me  again  to  thank  you, 
sir,  for  many  hours  of  your  company.  I  repeat,  that  you 
have  done  me  a  pleasure,  and  an  honor :  for  I  find  in  you  a 
mind  clear  and  strong,  competent  to  test,  to  sift,  to  grasp, 
to  wield  those  new  ideas  which  will  change  the  world.  Do 
not  dream  that  we  will  pass  through  the  years,  directly  fol 
lowing  this,  without  convulsions  and  a  conflict,  such  as  the 
world  has  never  seen.  Prepare  yourself,  put  on  your  armor, 
get  ready  !  For  my  part,  I  ask  in  that  inevitable  conflict, 
no  better  companion.  These  are  no  idle  words,  sir.  I  shall 
call  upon  you,  and  am  well  convinced,  that  my  call  will  not 
be  in  vain  !  " 

And  bowing  with  lofty  courtesy,  the  stranger  entered  the 
tavern.  At  the  same  moment  the  footfall  of  a  horse  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  Charles  Waters,  and  looking  up,  he 
saw  Beatrice  Hallam,  who  had  stopped  before  the  inu, 
mounted  as  usual  on  her  tall  white  horse. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

HOW  BEATRICE  PEATED  FOR  STRENGTH  TO  RESIST  HERSELF. 

HE  rose  and  went  toward  the  young  girl,  walking  as  in  * 
dream.     Those  magical  accents  of  the  stranger's  voice  were 


TO   RESIST  HERSELF.  195 

gtill  ringing  in  his  ears — he  almost  thought  he  heard  the 
roar  of  thunder,  and  the  crashing  of  the  sea — the  air  almost 
seemed  alive  with  lightning  flashes.  For  thunder,  lightning, 
and  a  stormy  ocean,  seemed  to  be  the  elements  of  that  grand, 
fiery  oratory. 

But  he  soon  found  this  preoccupation  put  to  rout  by 
something  more  powerful  than  the  grandest  eloquence,  the 
most  overpowering  oratory — a  young  girl's  eyes.  Slowly, 
his  great  thoughts  fled  away  from  his  mind — the  fate  of  Vir 
ginia  was  forgotten — mind  beat  an  ignominious  retreat,  and 
the  heart  knew  of  but  one  object  in  the  universe,  a  fresh, 
bright  face  that  smiled  upon  him,  a  mild,  tender  pair  of 
eyes,  that  filled  with  happy  light  when  they  fell  upon  him. 
He  assisted  the  young  girl  to  the  ground  quietly : — neither 
spoke,  but  their  eyes  were  more  eloquent  than  any  words 
could  have  been.  On  their  last  meeting,  Beatrice  had  has 
tened  forward,  exclaiming,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  ! " 
and  now,  when  day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  she  had 
thought  of  him  with  inexpressible  tenderness,  and  come  to 
feel,  indeed,  that  her  life  was  illuminated  by  a  new,  unim- 
agined  glory — now  she  did  not  assure  him  that  she  was  glad 
to  see  him.  The  human  heart  in  1 763  was  much  the  same 
as  at  present,  the  reader  will  perceive. 

So  without  speaking,  she  passed  in  and  he  followed  her, 
with  no  need  of  invitation  in  words  :  her  eyes  said  all — and 
they  entered  the  little  apartment  which  had  witnessed  so 
many  memorable  scenes.  Then  for  the  first  time  Beatrice 
taking  off  her  little  hat,  and  throwing  back  her  beautifu. 
hair,  which  had  become  loose,  said  : 

"Oh,  you  have  been  away  so  long  !  You  promised  to 
come  often  I " 

How  could  he  resist  that  earnest  tender  voice — how  feel 
any  more  sorrow  or  disquiet — how  prevent  his  heart  from 
beating  more  rapidly,  as  these  soft  words  sank  into  it. 

"  Indeed,  I  have  not  kept  my  promise,"  he  said,  with 
that  gentleness  and  softness,  which  at  times  characterized 
his  voice,  "  but  fate  has  seemed  to  decree  that  we  should  not 
meet." 

"  That  was  very  naughty  in  fate  ! "  said  Beatrice,  with 
a  winning  little  smile,  "  because  we  are  good  friends,  yoi 
knaw." 


16  HOW   BEATRICE   PRAYED   FOR    STRENGTH 

And  the  soft  voice  trembled  with  its  depth  of  meaning. 

"  Indeed,  I  can  answer  for  myself,"  he  said,  sitting 
down. 

"  And  I  do  not  think  I  need  say  any  thing  for  my  part," 
answered  Beatrice;  "you  saved  my  life." 

And  again,  the  tender  eyes  dwelt  <or  a  moment  on  his 
face,  and  were  cast  down. 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  that  yet  ?  " 

"  No— how  could  I  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  pray  do  not  speak  of  it  again.  Has  you! 
wetting  caused  you  any  inconvenience  ?  I  hope  not." 

"  Only  a  little  cough — but  I  have  not  coughed  a  bit  to 
day." 

With  which,  as  if  to  improve  the  portion  still  remaining, 
the  young  girl  began  to  cough,  but  with  no  violence. 

"  You  see  I  began  just  because  I  boasted,"  she  said, 
smiling.  "  Is  Mr.  Waters  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  well." 

"  He  was  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Beatrice,  gratefully , 
"  please  give  him  my  best  love." 

And,  without  being  conscious  of  any  reason  for  it,  she 
blushed,  and  turned  away.  It  is  probable  that  something 
similar  to  what  was  passing  in  her  mind,  passed  in  the  heart 
of  her  companion  also,  for  his  countenance  brightened,  and 
grew  very  tender. 

"  My  father  sent  you  his  best  regards,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
came  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  them.  I  must  confess, 
however,  that  I  was  somewhat  selfish — " 

«  Selfish  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  since  I  promised  myself  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you." 

"  Oh,"  said  Beatrice,  "  please,  don't  let  us  make  any 
polite  speeches  to  each  other." 

"  But,  indeed,  that  is  not  mere  courtesy ;  it  is  the  truth," 
he  replied.  "  I  had  such  a  quiet,  friendly  talk,  when  I  was 
here  before,  that  I  wished  to  keep  my  promise,  to  visit  you 
every  day." 

He  had  paused  slightly  before  the  word  "  friendly,"  and, 
conscious  of  the  reason,  avoided  the  frank,  tender  eyes. 

"  Why  did  you  stay  away  so  long,  then  ?  "  she  said ;  "  in- 
deed,  I  kav«  longed  to  see  y«u." 


•TO   RESIST   HERSELF.  19? 

These  words  were  uttered  with  great  simplicity,  and  with 
that  childlike  frankness,  which  was  one  of  the  young  girl's 
most  striking  traits  of  character.  One  would  have  said 
that  she  was  so  innocent  and  truthful,  that  she  could  not 
school  herself  with  forms ;  and  such,  indeed,  was  the  case. 
Beatrice  was  no  longer  the  actress,  in  his  society ;  she  was 
the  young,  girlish  being  we  have  seen  shouting  after  the  sea 
gulls,  and  said,  "  Indeed,  I  have  longed  to  see  you,"  without 
a  thought  of  any  impropriety. 

"  Fate  would  not  let  me  come,  as  I  said,"  he  replied, 
smiling ;  "  but,  now  I  have  conquered  destiny,  and  bring 
you,  not  only  my  father's  regards,  and  my  own  good  wishes, 
but  a  trinket,  which,  I  fancy,  must  belong  to  you.  The  ini 
tials  upon  it  must  be  those  of  your  mother." 

Beatrice  rose  quickly,  and  ran  up  to  him. 

"  Oh,  have  you  got  it  ?  "  she  cried. 

He  smiled,  and  taking  from  his  pocket  a  small  locket  of 
gold,  attached  to  a  narrow  blue  ribbon,  handed  it  to  her. 
Beatrice  took  it  quickly,  and  with  an  eagerness  which  be 
trayed  the  importance  she  attached  to  it. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad!"  she  said;  "I  am  so  glad  you 
found  it ! " 

"  It  is  yours,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  !  " 

"  You  must  have  dropped  it,  on  the  day  of  your  saiL" 

"  Yes,  I  must  have." 

"  It  was  picked  up,  upon  the  river's  bank,  by  my  father, 
and,  from  the  letters  B.  W.  upon  it,  he  fancied  that  it  be 
longed  to  you." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  have  worn  it  a  long  time,  and  I  believe  it 
was  my  mother's.  But  I  don't  know,"  added  the  young 
girl,  with  some  sadness  ;  "  I  never  saw  my  mother,  I 
believe," 

"  Did  your  father  give  you  the  locket  ?  " 

"  No,  I  believe  not.  I  do  not  remember.  I  think  I 
wore  it  around  my  neck  when  I  was  a  little  child ;  at  least 
I  have  worn  it  as  long  as  I  could  remember." 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  been  able  to  restore  it ;  though  the 
merit  really  belongs  to  my  father. ' 

"  Please  say  I  thank  him  very  much,"  said  Beatrice ; 
K  indeed,  it  is  very  dear  to  me.  I  had  been  to  look  for  H," 

"What!  this  morning?" 


i8  HOW   BEATRICE    PRAYED   *OR    STRENGTH 

"  Oh,  yes ;  you  know  I  am  a  great  rider.  So  I  thought 
I  would  just  put  on  my  skirt,  and  go  to  the  river,  where  Mr. 
Townes  lives — you  know  it  was  his  boat  we  sailed  in — and 
ask  him  if  I  had  dropped  it  there,  or  in  the  boat." 

"  You  had,  then,  been  to  the  river  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  I  had  a  delightful  ride.  Mr.  Townea 
was  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said,  laughing,  like  a  child,  "  and 
was  good  enough  to  praise  my  cheeks,  and  bless  my  eyes 
and,  I  think  he  said  he  would  drag  the  river,  or  something 
for  my  locket.  Oh,  he  praised  you  so  !  " 

"  Townes  is  an  excellent  and  worthy  man,  and  loves  my 
father  and  myself  very  much,  I  believe." 

"  I  will  like  him  more  than  ever,  hereafter  ;  for  you  are 
my  friends,  you  know,"  said  Beatrice,  with  the  most  charming 
simplicity  ;  "  indeed,  I  like  him  very  much  already,  for  his 
kindness  to  me  on  the  day  we  sailed." 

"  He  really  saved  you,"  said  her  companion. 

"  No,  no  1 "  cried  Beatrice ;  "  indeed  I  owe  my  life 
to  you." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  was  very  strong  once,"  he  said,  "  but  have  been  of 
late  devoured  by  a  thirst  for  study — I  was  nearly  exhausted 
when  Townes  came.  But  let  us  dismiss  the  subject.  I  am 
very  glad  your  locket  is  safe." 

And  he  gazed,  with  a  look  of  great  softness,  upon  her 
bright  face. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  value  it  highly,"  said  Beatrice ;  "  see 
how  prettily  'tis  chased." 

He  took  and  examined  it. 

"  Here  are  the  letters  I  observed,"  he  said ;  "  but  they 
are  nearly  worn  away.  Still,  as  you  see,  they  are  distinct. 
There  they  are — '  B.  W.'  The  B.  stands  for — for — your 
first  name,  I  suppose." 

"  My  mother's  name  was  Beatrice,  I  imagine.  Strange," 
the  young  girl  added,  half  to  herself,  "  that  father  has  never 
talked  to  me  about  mother." 

And  she  sighed,  and  looked  very  thoughtful.  He  sat 
gazing  on  the  tender,  gentle  face,  the  veiled  eyes,  and  girlish 
lips ;  thinking  he  had  never  seen  any  one  more  beautiful — 
never,  among  those  fair  maidens  who  passed  in  their 
Chariots  like  lovely  princesses,  enveloped  in  clouds  of 


fO   RESIST   HERSELF.  l&j 

«rith  bright  diamond-like  eyes,  and  snowy  hands  nung  out 
against  the  cushion  of  the  door.  The  features  of  Beatrice 
were  always  striking  for  their  purity  and  elegance,  but  the 
eloquent  expression  was  the  great  charm  of  her  face. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  my  mother's,"  she  added,  "  but  I  do 
not  know  what  the  '  W.'  stands  for.  I'll  ask  father." 

"  Would  it  not  be  singular  if  it  stood  for  Waters  ?  "  he 
said,  smiling. 

She  started. 

"  Waters  !  Oh  !  how  singular  !  " 

"  Beatrice  Waters  ?  "  he  added. 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  How  strange  !  "  she  said,  at  length,  buried  in  thought ; 
"  it  is  very  strange  !  " 

"  What  ?  "  he  said. 

"  The  coincidence — Beatrice — Waters,"  she  added,  after 
a  pause. 

And  her  soft  eyes  met  those  of  her  companion,  who  look 
ed  at  her  with  so  much  unconscious  meaning,  that  she  turned 
away,  blushing. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  are  not  related,"  he  said. 

"  I  fear  not,"  she  murmured. 

"  Even  if  your  mother's  maiden  name  had  been  the  same 
with  my  own,  it  would  not  follow  that  we  were  connected. 
There  are  many  persons  named  Waters." 

"  Yes — I  do  not  think,  however,  that  the  { W.'  stands 
for  that." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  It  might." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  the  same  thoughtful  look,  "  but  I 
had  a  brother  who  died — he  did  not  live  with  us — somewhere 
abroad — -I  never  knew  him — but  his  name  was  Wesley.  I 
suppose  that  was  my  mother's  name." 

"  Oh,  you  are  determined  that  I  shall  not  have  the 
satisfaction  of  being  your  kinsman." 

The  tender  face  clouded. 

"  Would  that  be  a  satisfaction  ?  "  she  said,  softly. 

"  Ah,  yes  1 "  he  muttered. 

"  I  am  an  actress,"  said  Beatrice,  softly,  and  in  a  low 
tone,  casting  down  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  "  I  had  forgofr 
ten  it." 


200       HOW  BEATRICE  PRATED  FOR  STRENGTH 

And  a  moisture  which  she  could  not  drive  back  made 
her  eyes  swim,  and  gathered  on  the  long  dusky  lashes.  Those 
swimming  eyes  went  straight  to  his  heart,  an  irnpressiblo 
gush  of  tenderness  made  his  brow  flush,  and  taking  the  little 
hand,  he  pressed  it  between  his  own,  with  a  tenderness  which 
made  Beatrice  burst  into  tears  :  for  his  meaning  could  not 
be  misunderstood. 

"  Oh  1 "  she  sobbed,  turning  away  and  hiding  her  face 
with  the  other  hand,  "  you  are  so  good  and  noble !  I 
felt  it  when  you  left  me  before,  and  more  than  ever  now  ! 
It  is  so  good  in  you  to  treat  a  poor  young  girl  like  me  so 
kindly! — a  poor  actress,  that  other  people  took  upon  with 
contempt !  Oh  1  how  can  I  ever  thank  you  1  I  can  only — 
only  bless  you  !  and  never  forget  you  ! — Oh  I  never — never 
will  forget  how  kind  you  were  !  " 

And  bending  lower  still,  the  young  girl  sobbed  and 
sighed ;  and  then  gently  drawing  away  her  hand,  took  from 
her  pocket  a  handkerchief,  with  which  she  attempted  to  dry 
her  eyes  from  which  a  flood  of  tears  were  gushing.  That 
last  word  which  she  had  uttered  had  jarred  upon  his  heart 
strangely.  "  How  kind  you  were  !  "  Then  she  was  soon 
to  leave  him — they  were  to  be  separated — this  brief  glimpse 
of  happiness  and  joy  was  to  disappear  like  a  sift  of  blue  be 
tween  driving  thunder  clouds  1  "I  will  never  forget  how 
kind  you  were  I "  Then,  she  would  be  lost  to  him  !  she 
would  pass  on  like  a  bird  of  the  tropics,  brilliant  and 
beautiful,  attracting  all  eyes  and  hearts,  but  sailing  far  away 
to  other  skies  1  He  would  see  her  no  more  !  Her  pure, 
tender  face  would  never  smile  on  him  again  !  those  large 
melting  eyes  would  no  more  flood  his  heart  with  unspeakable 
happiness — that  voice  of  marvellous  sweetness  and  earnest 
ness,  so  full  of  joy  and  softness  and  music,  would  no  longer 
greet  him — those  small  hands  would  no  longer  press  his 
own,  sending  the  warm  blood  to  his  heart,  and  filling  his 
soul,  his  being,  with  a  delicious  tranquility,  a  pure  delight ! 
This  enchanting  form  now  before  him,  would,  before  many 
days — at  most  a  few  months — had  elapsed,  be  to  him  but  a 
memory,  a  picture  for  the  eyes  of  the  heart !  She  would 
leave  him  1 — that  one  thought  gathered  into  a  burning  focus 
all  the  scattered  rays  of  tenderness  in  his  heart,  and  that 
heart  now  throbbed  passionately. 

We  have  said  that  Charlei  Waters  was  a  man  of  strong 


TO    RESIST    HERSELT.  20. 

passions,  spite  of  his  ordinary  quietness — a  quietness  whicb 
eprung  from  self-control.  Under  that  mild  exterior  he  con 
cealed  a  heart  of  powerful  impulses,  and  he  proved  it  on  this 
occasion.  Unable  to  bear  the  thoughts  which  the  young  girl'f 
unconscious  allusion  to  her  departure  had  aroused,  he  yielded, 
giving  himself  up  unresistingly  to  the  flood  of  emotion. 

"  Oh  1  "  he  cried,  seizing  the  young  girl's  hand  and  cov 
ering  it  with  passionate  kisses  ;  "  Oh,  Beatrice  1  you  wound 
me  to  the  heart ! — do  not  speak  thus  to  me  again!  I  cannot 
bear  it !  No,  you  are  not  a  mere  actress — no !  you  are  the 
pearl  of  purity  and  honor  1  Never  wound  me  again  with  such 
words,  for  they  pierce  my  heart!  But  you  will  have  no 
occasion,  perhaps, — you  are  going  to  leave  us  !  to  leave  me  ! 
No  !  I  cannot  endure  the  thought ! — for  I  love  you  passion 
ately,  devotedly  !  I  love  you  with  my  heart  and  soul,  and  would 
ask  no  greater  satisfaction  than  to  pour  out  my  blood  for  you. 
You  think  I  am  cold  because  my  face  is  calm :  undeceive 
yourself :  few  men  have  so  much  fire  in  them — such  a  danger 
ous  and  fatal  temperament  when  aroused.  No,  I  am  not  cold, 
and  I  love  you,  Beatrice,  with  a  love  which  has  grown  and 
increased  in  a  short  time  to  the  height  of  a  violent  passion. 
Oh,  no  !  you  shall  not  go— you  must  be  my  wife — you  must 
love  me  at  last,  because  I  almost  worship  you  !  " 

No  words  can  describe  the  brilliant  expression  which 
flushed  the  young  girl's  face,  then  left  it  pale.  That  flush 
was  the  evidence  of  an  emotion  of  unspeakable  happiness. 
The  pallor  was  from  the  thought  which  darted  through  her 
brain  like  lightning.  She  saw  all  the  future  spread  out  be 
fore  her  like  a  sunny  landscape,  all  the  happiness  within  her 
grasp ;  she  felt  his  arm  approach  her — and  drew  back  with 
a  start,  a  cry. 

Her  face  was  bathed  in  tears :  her  eyes  swam ;  her  lips 
trembled ;  all  the  nerves  of  the  weak  woman's  form  rebelled 
and  shook — but  the  great  heart  remained. 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  a  passionate  sob,  which  seemed  to 
tear  its  way  from  her  heart — "  No  1  no  !  I  cannot  .  .  .  !  It 
breaks  my  heart  to  say  it — God  pity  me  ! — but  no,  no,  I  can 
not  1  Oh,  God  will  accept  this  agony  I  am  suffering  as  an 
expiation  ILr  all  sin  I  have  committed  ! — no  no  !  do  not  tempt 
me !  my  heart  failed  me  for  a  moment,  but  is  now  strong— 
yet  do  not  tempt  me  I " 


202  HOW  BEATRICE  PRAYED  FOR  STRENGTH 

And  she  covered  her  face,  over  which  her  hair  fell 
and  sobbed  as  if  indeed  her  heert  were  about  to  break ;  scarce 
ly  hearing  his  entreaties,  his  prayers,  his  passionate  assur 
ances  of  love. 

"  I  cannot  be  your  wife,"  she  said,  at  length,  with  more 
calmness ;  "  God  has  not  permitted  me  to  be,  and  I  submit ! 
I  am  an  actress, — do  not  interrupt  me  !  for  I  have  scarcely 
strength  now  to  think  or  speak.  I  am  a  poor  playing  girl, 
with  nothing  in  the  wide  world  but  my  self-respect !  I  will 
not  make  your  father  blush  for  an  unworthy  daughter  ! — Oh 
let  me  go  on  ! — I  cannot  take  advantage  of  your  noble  devo 
tion — I  cannot  weigh  down  and  darken  your  life — for  pity's 
sake,  do  not  look  at  me  so !  do  not !  I  cannot — oh,  no  !  I 
cannot ! — God  has  no  pity  on  me — it  is  not  my  fault  that  I 
am  such  as  I  am — but  I  must  suffer — Oh  !  it  is  a  bitter  suf 
fering  1" 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  choked  by  her  sobs ;  then 
went  on : 

"  Your  eye  flashes !  and  I  know  well  what  you  mean. 
Yes,  you  are  noble  and  courageous — you  would  trample  on 
this  unjust  prejudice — love  me  more  for  that ;  I  know  it,  it 
is  the  bitterest  of  all — but — " 

"  Oh,  I  would  die  for  you  ! — give  my  life,  oh,  how  wil 
lingly,  for — ah  !  let  them  dare  !  " 

And  his  eye  flashed,  his  breast  heaved  tumultuously. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  that !  Beatrice,  I  love  you— 
love  you  so  devotedly,  so  passionately,  that  I  could  ask  no 
greater  happiness  than  to  dare  the  world's  scorn  for  you — 
go  down  to  death  with  you  1  But  there  is  no  scorn  1  What 
is  there  in  our  positions — I  am  poor  and  obscure,  you  are 
the  admiration  of  all !  They  shall  not  deprive  me  of  you  ! 
No,  no  !  I  cannot  exist  without  you  now — you  are  my  soul, 
my  life,  my  blood,  my  heart !  I  die  without  you  1 " 

The  young  girl  felt  her  heart  yielding — her  brain  swam — 
overcome,  exhausted,  faint,  she  sobbed,  and  shook,  and 
struggled  with  her  rebellious  heart.  He  saw  the  hesitation. 

"  Oh,  be  my  own,  Beatrice  ! "  he  cried,  overwhelming  her 
hand  with  kisses  ;  "  be  my  wife !  the  sunlight  of  my  exist- 
tence  ! — make  my  life  happy — come,  my  Beatrice,  my  beau 
tiful,  noble  girl  1 " 

And  opening  his  arms,  be  would  have  clasped  her  to  his 


TO    RESIST   HERSELF.  208 

heart.  Overcome,  powerless,  another  moment  and  his  arm 
would  have  encircled  her,  her  head  lain  on  his  bosom ;  but 
suddenly  her  hand  fell  on  the  locket,  and  she  started  back 
with  a  cry,  and  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  mother  !  give  me  strength,  if  you  look  down  on  me 
from  heaven  !  "  she  cried,  '•  give  me  strength  against  myself, 
against  my  own  heart !  Oh,  I  am  so  weak !  I  know  what  is 
right,  and  am  tempted  to  do  wrong  !  Mother  !  mother !  give 
me  strength  !  Oh,"  she  continued,  looking  at  him  and  sob 
bing  violently,  "  do  not  tempt  me — longer !  Do  not  make  me 
yield,  and  suffer  remorse  for  ever  while  I  live  for  this  mo 
ment's  weakness  !  I  cannot  be  your  wife  !  You  tempt  me 
in  vain.  I  am — broken-hearted,  but  you  cannot  move  me 
now  !  I  am  weak — exhausted — but — God  has — heard  me  ! 
I  have — conquered  myself!  " 

And  falling  into  a  chair,  she  fainted.  Ten  minutes  after 
wards  she  was  stretched  weak  and  exhausted  on  her  couch, 
and  Charles  Waters  was  hurrying  with  a  pale  brow  from  the 
town. 

Yes,  she  had  conquered  herself! — she  had  drawn  back 
from  those  arms  opened  wide  to  receive  her,  clasp  her  like  a 
poor  dove  beaten  by  storms  to  the  true  breast — her  refuge 
She  had  evercome  that  passionate  yearning  to  fall  upon  his 
bosom,  and — given  up  to  love  and  tenderness — weep  away 
all  her  unhappiness  in  those  strong  arms  ;  she  had  closed 
her  eyes  to  that  seducing  picture  of  such  calm  and  lifelong 
happiness  as  his  wife — she  had  resolutely  bidden  her  heart 
lie  still — she  had  by  a  sublime  effort  of  devotion  drawn  back 
from  that  tranquil  future  to  be  passed  with  him ; — but  she 
was  firm.  Yes,  the  weak  body  had  succumbed,  the  nerves 
given  way — her  strength  had  failed  her,  but  not  her  soul. 

The  struggle,  however,  was  not  over.  Stretched  upon 
the  little  couch  to  which  he  had  carried  her  in  his  arms,  the 
conflict  was  renewed  with  her  returning  strength.  Oh,  bow 
unhappy  she  was  !  What  a  poor,  lonely,  wretched  thing  she 
was  !  How  heaven  had  cursed  her  when  it  made  her  destiny 
so  miserable !  How  terrible  that  trial ! — on  one  side  love, 
with  open  arms  and  smiling  lips,  and  eyes  full  of  tenderness, 
saying  to  her,  "  Come,  weary  heart  1  come,  poor  unhappy 
child !  here  is  a  future  of  full,  quiet  happiness,  a  nature 
which  your  heart  yearns  for — both  are  yours — come  1 "  and, 


204  EFFINGHAM    HALL  '.    SLUMBERS. 

on  the  other  side,  stern,  inexorable  duty,  saying,  with  a 
frown,  "  Come  away  ! — preserve  your  self-respect — close  your 
eyes  to  this.  Self-respect  is  all  you  have,  retain  your  trea 
sure  ! "  Was  it  not  bitter,  she  sobbed,  was  it  not  too  much 
agony  for  one  poor  heart !  and  for  a  moment  heaven  seemed 
black  to  her — truth  a  mere  lie — her  moral  sense  was  being 
deadened. 

Suddenly  her  bare  arm  struck  against  something  on  the 
couch ;  she  looked  at  this  object  and  saw  that  it  was  a  small 
Bible.  She  opened  it  and  read  on  the  fly  leaf — "  Catherine 
Effingham,  from  dear  papa" — and  would  have  closed  it  again, 
but  her  good  angel  held  her  hand. 

"  The  child  dropped  it  when  she  sat  here,  doubtless," 
she  murmured,  faintly. 

And  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  open  page,  where  she  read, 
through  tears : 

"  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest. 

"  Take  my  yoke  upon  you,  and  learn  of  me  :  for  I  am 
meek  and  lowly  of  heart :  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your 
souls. 

"  For  my  yoke  is  easy  and  my  burden  is  light." 

As  she  closed  the  book,  her  eyes  expanded  with  wonder 
and  solemn  thought ;  her  brow  was  overshadowed,  then 
bright ;  then  all  this  passed,  and  clasping  the  volume  to  her 
bosom,  she  sobbed,  and  prayed,  and  slowly  grew  more  calm. 
A  voice  had  spoken  to  her  which  she  had  not  heard  before. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

EFFINGHAM  HALL— SLUMBERS. 


WHILE  these  events  were  occurring  at  Williamsburg — theeo 
rarious  and  conflicting  passions,  writhing,  bubbling,  boiling, 
and  exploding — while  the  town  began  to  thrill,  and  buzz,  and 
rouse  itself,  and  make  preparation  for  the  meeting  of  the 
burgesses,  and  the  great  opening  day — all  this  while  pro 
found  quiet  reigned  at  Effingham  Hall.  Embowered  in  its 
lofty  oaks,  which  only  sighed  and  rustled  mournfully  in  the 


EFFINGHAM   HALL:    SLUMBERS.  205 

sad  autumn  days,  it  seemed  to  sleep,  looking,  with  its  sunset 
illumined  windows,  like  great  eyes,  on  the  broad  woodlands 
and  champaign,  and  the  far  river  flowing  solemnly  to  the  great 
ocean.  One  might  have  fancied,  without  any  violent  effort 
of  the  imagination,  that  the  great  manor-house  was  a  living 
thing,  which  mourned  for  something  which  had  happened  not 
long  since.  The  casements  rattled  gloomily  in  the  chill  au 
tumn  evening,  and  the  mourning  winds,  scattering  the  varie 
gated  leaves,  sighed  round  the  gables  like  an  invisible  host 
of  mourners,  then  died  away  with  sobs  in  the  dim  forest. 
The  sun  came  up,  but  did  not  shine  with  cheerfulness  and 
warmth — something  seemed  to  have  dimmed  his  light,  and 
the  rainy  mist  drooped  long  above  the  fields  before  his 
struggling  beams  could  pierce  and  overthrow  it.  He  went 
down  in  a  pomp  of  golden  clouds,  indeed :  but  even  they 
looked  sad — for  it  was  like  a  great  monarch  dying  on  his 
purple  couch  of  state,  and  taking  with  him  to  the  far  undis 
covered  land  beyond  the  immense  horizon,  all  that  blessed 
and  cheered  the  hearts  of  nations.  In  the  long  nights,  the 
breezes  of  the  ocean  sighed,  and  sobbed,  and  murmured  to 
each  other  round  the  antique  chimneys,  and  a  sombre  desola 
tion,  uncheered  by  any  light  but  the  great  struggling  blood- 
red  moon's,  appeared  to  brood  over  the  broad  domain  of 
Effingham  and  the  thoughtful,  silent  Hall. 

Within,  there  was  scarcely  more  cheerfulness  than  with 
out.  The.  servants  moved  about  with  quiet  steps  and  sub 
dued  voices ;  for  they  felt  that  the  echoes  should  not  be 
aroused.  The  cloud  on  their  master's  brow  awed  them,  and 
instinctively  they  spoke  in  whispers,  and  tipped  in  and  out , 
and  when  a  silver  cup  or  salver  chanced  to  fall,  they  started 
and  held  their  breath,  and  looked  round  fearfully.  Little 
was  said  by  any  member  of  the  household  ;  days,  it  seemed, 
passed  sometimes  without  a  word  being  uttered  by  any  one. 
That  gloom  upon  the  old  squire's  brow  repelled  any  advances 
— silenced  any  attempts  at  social  intercourse.  The  meals 
passed  in  silence,  with  their  array  of  almost  motionless  black 
servants,  standing  behind  the  chairs,  and  moving  noiselessly 
in  obedience  to  signs.  All  countenances  were  clouded,  and, 
when  the  old  gentleman  had  swallowed  his  chocolate,  or 
eaten  something  with  an  obvious  effort,  he  passsed  in  silence 
to  the  library,  and  was  seen  no  more  for  hours. 


206  EFF1NGHAM    HALL:    SLUAlBKltb. 

Miss  Alethea  had  grown  unusually  good-tempered  ,  she 
did  not  scold,  or  rate  the  servants,  or  fill  the  house  with 
clatter  in  her  housekeeping,  as  her  wont  had  been :  she 
looked  sad,  and  spoke  little — passing  her  time  in  assiduous 
sewing  on  household  articles — a  dress  for  Kate,  or  else  a  frill 
for  Willie,  or  maybe  a  neckcloth  for  her  father.  Orange 
was  no  longer  in  high  favor,  and  would  come  and  wag  his 
tail,  and  look  up  wistfully,  and  whine,  and  then,  finding  that 
no  notice  was  taken  of  him,  would  go  and  lie  down  on  the 
rug,  and,  resting  his  chin  upon  his  paws,  gaze  into  tho 
singing  fire,  hour  after  hour,  in  silence.  Willie  was,  ho 
knew  not  why,  in  low  spirits ;  he  often  thought  of  Champ, 
now,  and  regretted  all  those  hasty  words  he  had  uttered 
lately.  His  whip  no  longer  waked  the  echoes  of  the  old 
portrait-decorated  hall ;  his  halloos  to  the  fox-hounds  drag 
ging  their  heavy  blocks  and  baying  hoarsely,  were  never 
heard  now  startling  the  silent  lawn  ;  the  gallop  of  his  poney 
never  sounded  on  the  gravelled  road  winding  through  the 
rich  grounds  up  to  the  door.  Little  Kate  had  not  had  a 
ride  behind  him  now  for  weeks — Willie  had  lost  his  relish 
for  the  amusement,  and  for  all  else,  it  seemed — he  vent 
slowly  singing  about  the  house,  in  a  low,  melancholy  tone, 
and  seemed  to  be  looking  for  something  which  he  could  not 
find. 

And  what  of  little  Kate  ?  She  was,  perhaps,  the  s?.d- 
dest  of  them  all.  Her  tender,  sensitive  heart  had  received 
a  wound  from  that  which  had  occasioned  all  this  gloom  in 
them.  She  loved  him  so  dearly !  as  she  had  said,  with  her 
simple,  childish  truth — they  had  been  so  happy  all  those  days 
and  years  before  and  since  his  return  !  How  could  she  mi^s 
his  presence  and  not  grieve  ?  They  had  such  quiet,  smiling 
talks  together  in  the  evenings,  when  stretched  upon  the  sofa 
with  his  head  upon  her  lap  she  had  sung  for  him  her  little 
songs — "  The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,"  "  Birks  of  Invermay/' 
or  "  Roslin  Castle,"  in  the  clear  sunny  voice,  instinct  with  so 
much  marvellous  sweetness,  he  had  said,  one  day.  They  had 
walked  together,  hand  in  hand,  far  into  the  deep  woods,  aiid 
he  had  never  complained  of  the  pebbles  hurting  his  feet 
through  the  frail  Spanish  leather  slippers,  as  he  had  done 
in  her  hearing  to  grown  ladies;  they  had  looked  upon  the 
Betting  sun  from  the  hi^gh  hill  westward  from  the  Hall  ari 


EPFINGHAM   HALL:    SLUMBERS.  207 

then,  turning  round,  seen  the  tall  windows  all  in  flame  :  he 
had  taken  such  good  care  upon  those  rides  that  she  should 
sit  easily,  and  pressed  the  little  hand  clasped  round  his 
waist  with  such  smiling  goodness.  She  remembered  so  well 
his  voice,  and  looks,  and  smiles — other  people  said  they  were 
affected  or  sarcastic  smiles,  but  they  were  very  bright  when 
they  shone  on  her ;  and  now,  when  she  no  longer  saw  them, 
she  missed  their  light,  and  sat  down  in  her  little  corner,  and 
wetted  the  silk  of  which  Carlos  was  composed  with  silent 
tears.  After  one  of  these  quiet,  uncomplaining  cries,  she 
felt  that  she  must  see  him,  and  she  did,  as  we  know,  at  the 
Raleigh.  She  came  back  from  that  interview  with  a  greater 
weight  than  ever  on  her  heart.  She  could  not  understand 
those  gloomy  words  he  uttered,  but  she  heard  him  say,  they 
could  not  meet  again,  and  that  he  could  not  go  back  with 
her — and  all  the  way  back  to  the  Hall,  the  child  sobbed  and 
shook,  and  hid  her  face,  making  no  reply  to  Miss  Alethea's 
questions.  What  could  have  changed  him  so  at  the  tavern 
— so  suddenly  1  She  knew  she  had  half  persuaded  him  when 
he  left  her — and  then  the  child  shrunk  and  trembled,  think 
ing  of  those  scenes  which  followed.  She  sat  down  in  her 
corner  again,  and  mourned,  and  cried,  and  went  on  with  her 
work,  or  said  her  lessons,  with  a  dumb  sorrow,  which  it  was 
a  cruel  sight  to  see;  at  night,  though,  she  was  calmer — 
having  read  her  Bible  and  prayed  for  him. 

One  day  the  parson  came  to  see  his  parishioner  and  con 
dole  with  him.  He  performed  this  parish  duty  by  endeavor 
ing  to  prove  that  the  prodigal  was  not  worthy  to  be  his  father's 
son,  and  that  his  "  conduct  "  could  not  in  any  manner  affect 
the  squire  :  he  wound  up  with  a  reiteration  of  his  argument 
proving  the  young  man's  unworthiness,  and  then,  to  his  hor 
ror,  saw  the  squire  rise,  and  flush  to  his  brows  with  passion. 
High  words  followed — Champ  should  not  be  abused  in  his 
father's  house,  the  squire  said,  by  any  person  in  Christen 
dom  !  This  was  all  the  thanks  he  got,  the  parson  said,  with 
indignation  :  and  proceeding  thus  from  irritation  on  both 
sides,  to  rage,  the  interview  had  ended,  as  the  pardon  had  rela 
ted  to  the  stranger,  Kate  to  her  cousin.  Parson  Tag  had 
drank  his  last  glass  of  port  at  the  Hall,  and  before  many  days 
had  accepted  a  call  from  the  Piedmont  region,  and  so  shaken 
the  dust  of  the  parish  from  his  feet  for  ever. 


208  WILLIAMSBURG  :    EXCESSIVE    WAKEFULNES8. 

Visitors  talked  about  the  weather,  when  they  came  to 
the  Hall,  and  of  the  crops,  the  news  from  England,  the  ap 
proaching  speech  of  his  excellency,  Governor  Fauquier,  at 
the  opening  of  the  House  of  Burgesses,  and  indeed  of  every 
thing  but  that  one  subject.  Mr.  Effingham's  doings  were, 
indeed,  the  talk  of  the  colony,  as  he  had  said,  with  such  dis 
dainful  indifference,  but  none  of  the  colonists  introduced  the 
subject  at  the  Hall.  One  day  Mr.  Lee  and  his  family  dined 
there,  and  Willie  asked  Clare,  in  the  middle  of  a  profound 
silence,  if  she  was  going  to  the  governor's  ball  with  brother 
Champ.  Clare  had  colored,  and  her  lip  had  trembled  slightly, 
as  she  had  answered  that  she  did  not  think  of  going  to  the 
ball.  Whereupon  the  squire  had  struck  the  table,  and 
sworn  that  he  would  go  and  take  her — and  he  had  looked  so 
mournful  after  his  outburst,  that  Clare  had  said  nothing. 
It  was  half  understood  that  she  and  Henrietta  would  go — 
with  the  Effingham  party,  or  accompanied  by  their  cava 
liers. 

So  the  days  passed,  and  Effingham  Hall  seemed  to  be 
come  more  and  more  sad  and  still : — its  inmates  conversed 
less,  and  a  deeper  quiet  seemed  to  reign.  The  winds  that 
sobbed  across  the  lonely  autumn  fields,  and  swayed  backward 
and  forward  all  the  haughty  oaks,  seemed  only  to  increase 
the  stillness.  So  the  Hall  slept  its  sleep. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

WILLIAMSBUEG:     EXCESSIVE  WAKEFULNESS. 

WHILE  Effingham  Hall  was  falling  asleep  more  and  more 
deeply,  Williamsburg  having  passed  through  its  night — that 
is  to  say,  the  period  of  time  elapsing  between  the  adjourn 
ment  and  the  re- assemblage  of  the  House  of  Burgesses, 
that  galaxy  of  brilliant  suns  which  periodically  shone  upon 
it — Williamsburg  woke  up  from  its  long  slumber,  laughing, 
merry,  full  of  activity  and  expectation.  Already  the  grate 
ful  chinking  of  merry-faced  pistoles  were  heard,  as  they  rose 
and  fell  in  jovial  planters'  pockets,  while  the  owner  pon 
dered  how  to  lay  them  out  to  the  best  advantage — already, 


WILLIAMSBURG  :    EXCESSIVE    WAREFCT.NESS.  209 

though  the  meeting  of  the  House  was  three  days  off,  the 
t^wn  was  filling  fast ;  and  on  every  hand  jests  and  laughter, 
hearty  greetings,  the  slamming  of  doors,  the  rattle  of  car 
riages,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  the  jingle  of  spurs,  and  the  neighs 
of  horses,  gave  abundant  proof  that  the  joyous  season  had 
arrived.  The  taverns  were  filling  rapidly,  and  mine  host  of 
the  Raleigh  was  in  full  activity — running,  that  is  to  say 
toddling ;  bowing,  that  is  to  say  ducking  his  fat  head ;  laugh 
ing,  that  is  to  say  shaking  the  windows,  in  honor  of  the 
jolly  patrons  of  his  establishment  clapping  him  on  the  back 
asking  about  his  health  facetiously,  and  calling  for  his  rum. 
claret,  and  strong  waters. 

Whips  cracked ;  the  streets  were  full  of  sound  ;  the  men 
roared  over  their  cups ;  the  ladies  filled  the  stores,  running 
the  clerks  mad  with  orders ;  every  thing  said  very  plainly 
that  the  great  gala  day  of  the  middle  class  had  come  :  the 
class  who  visited  the  town  but  once  a  year  with  their  wives 
and  daughters,  and  were  so  determined  to  suck  joy  from  every 
thing. 

Through  this  laughing,  jesting  crowd  some  lordly  equi 
page  would  pass  from  time  to  time,  with  its  glossy  four-in- 
hand,  its  liveried  coachman  and  small  footman  on  the  board 
behind ;  and,  through  the  window  plainly  seen,  the  lovely  face 
of  some  young  beauty,  smiling  in  her  silk  and  velvet,  like  the 
countrymen  in  their  fustian ;  or  else  some  fat,  pursy  squire, 
with  puffy  cheeks,  and  formal  look,  set  off  by  his  good  wife 
in  plain  black  silk  and  diamonds. 

Young  gallants,  pranced  by  on  their  splendid  horses ;  coun 
try  carts  toiled  slowly  on,  laden  with  vegetables  and  drawn 
by  diminutive,  shaggy,  solemn-looking  animals ;  a  thousand 
bright-faced,  grinning  negroes  illuminating  like  black  suns 
the  buzzing,  restless,  laughing,  jovial,  hearty,  shouting  up 
roar — and  behold  !  A  drum  comes  from  the  distance,  quick 
ly  rolling,  trumpets  blare  aloud  and  split  the  ears,  and  mount 
ed  on  his  car  of  state — a  cart  fixed  with  a  platform  and  pull 
ed  by  three  mules — the  great  Hallam  rides  in  state  above 
the  tuneful  throng.  The  drums  deafen  all ;  the  trumpets 
shatter  all  tympana  with  a  gush  of  sound,  flowing  from  beard 
ed  lips,  blowing  for  life ;  and  high  above  the  whole  the  noble 
Shylock  rears  a  pine  sapling  with  a  placard  beauteous. 

That  placard  says,  that  at  the  old  theatre,  near  the  cap- 


210  WILLIAMSBURG :    2li  ESSIVE   WAKEFULNES9. 

itol,  and  by  permission  of  his  worship  the  mayor  of  Williamj- 
burg,  the  company  will  that  night  enact  the  tragedy  of  Ham 
let,  written  by  Mr.  William  Shakespeare.  Hamlet,  the  prince, 
by  the  great  tragedian,  Pugsby ;  Ophelia,  by  Miss  Beatrice 
Hallam,  the  delight  of  the  noble  aristocracy  and  the  wonder 
of  the  universal  world.  This  information  is  conveyed  in  let 
ters  half  a  foot  long,  and  with  a  profusion  of  exclamation 
points. 

Such  is  the  placard,  gazed  on  wonderingly  by  those  bar 
barous  country  people,  who  had  never  delighted  their  eyes 
with  the  sight  of  the  great  tragedian  Mr.  Pugsby,  nor  of 
Miss  Hallam,  the  delight  of  the  whole  aristocracy  and  the 
wonder  of  the  universal  world ;  perhaps,  indeed,  had  been 
so  sunk  in  barbarism  as  never  to  have  done  aught  but  read 
the  great  drama  written  by  the  glorious  Mr.  William  Shake 
speare  !  But  to-night  they  will  go  and  have  their  ignorance 
of  play-acting  turned  into  grand  illumination  on  the  subject. 
Yes  !  they  will  go  and  see  the  play,  the  actors,  and  the  noble 
aristocracy !  Their  pockets  are  well  filled — five  shillings 
nothing !  And  shouts  sound  louder,  the  great  trumpet  blares 
more  shatteringly,  the  drum  wakes  the  thunder,  and  the  splen 
did  pageant  passes  onward ;  Hallam  and  Shylock  proud, 
and  full  of  dignity  and  state.  At  the  Raleigh — as  on  Glou 
cester-street  and  everywhere — life  is  jubilant,  and  men  con 
sider  drinking,  with  every  friend  they  recognize,  a  duty.  And 
rum  and  claret,  port  and  Rhenish,  flow  in  streams,  and  doors 
bang,  windows  rattle,  heavy  shoes  clump,  merry  lips  laugh : 
Williamsburg  scents  the  coming  banquet  of  mind,  spread  by 
his  excellency  and  the  burghers — the  boasted  flow  of  reason 
and  the  soul — and,  full  of  joyful  anticipation,  empties  count 
less  flagons  at  the  Raleigh,  kicks  its  chairs,  plays  cards  upon 
its  tables,  and  erects  it  into  a  great  jolly  temple — a  temple 
where,  at  most  reasonable  charges,  as  mine  host  avers,  they 
may  worship  Bacchus,  Momus,  and  all  the  heathen  gods. 


IN   WHICH   THE   TALK   IS   OP   COSTUME.  211 

CHAPTER     XXXVIIL 

IN   WHICH    THE  TALK   IS   OF  COSTUME. 

LET  us  now  descend  from  generalities  to  particular  scenes, 
jtnd  in  order  to  make  this  descent,  ascend  to  Mr.  Efhngham's 
apartment  in  the  "Raleigh."  Aloof  from  all  the  bustle,  con 
fusion  and  laughter  of  the  crowd,  indifferent  to  it,  or  despis 
ing  it,  the  young  man  sat  thinking  in  silence,  and  glancing  at 
times  with  a  scornful  smile  on  the  merry  groups,  seen  through 
the  window,  passing  up  and  down  the  street.  His  lips  wore 
that  same  bitter  weary  expression  we  have  so  often  noted  ; 
his  cheek  was  more  sallow,  his  eyes  more  gloomy.  He  was 
clad  as  usual  in  the  richest  and  most  elegant  manner,  but 
the  gayety  of  his  toilette — the  lace,  the  embroidery,  the  feather 
in  his  cocked  hat,  which  lay  beside  him  on  the  floor — was  a 
mockery,  contrasted  thus  with  the  moody  and  exhausted 
face. 

The  young  man's  lips  moved,  and  he  muttered,  bit 
terly  : 

"  Yes,  now  the  die  is  really  cast !  While  it  rattled,  I 
might  have  drawn  back — now  the  throw  has  been  made,  it 
is  but  to  raise  the  box,  and  the  future  is  decided  for  the 
player — he  is  a  beggar  !  Yes,  I  am  mad ;  I  feel  that  this 
infatuation  amounts  to  madness  ! — this  girl  will  ruin  me  ! 
I  love  her,  and  hate  her !  She  is  an  angel,  and  a  devil  1 
So  pure  and  innocent  in  face,  with  such  a  bitter  and  scornful 
heart.  By  heaven,  I'll  conquer  her — she  shall  be  mine  1 
And  yet — and  yet,"  he  murmured,  looking  down,  "  why  not 
draw  back  ?  There  is  time  !  And  Kate  !  how  I  distressed 
the  tender  child,  who  loves  me  so  much,  more  than  I  de 
serve — who,  perhaps,  saved  me !  I  thought  a  ray  of  sun 
light  fell  upon  me  when  she  came.  She  would  have  per 
suaded  me ;  I  feel  it,  I  know  it,  I  could  not  have  resisted — 
dear  child  !  "  and  the  poor,  weary  eyes  were  softened,  the 
mocking  smile  disappeared  ;  ';  thank  God,  she  loves  me  still. 
Why  should  I  not  go  back  now  ?  But  Beatrice !  Aye, 
those  chivalric  gentlemen,  who  would  display  their  courage 
at  my  expense.  Ah  !  "  he  continued,  smiling  bitterly  again, 
"  they  will  not  permit  me  to  av-J  as  seems  proper  to  me.  By 
heaven,  we  shall  see  '  " 


212  IN   WHICH   THE   TALK   IS   OF   COS1.ME. 

And  his  reckless,  dare-devil  eyes  flashed  haughtily.  At 
the  same  moment,  the  drums  and  trumpets  of  the  cortege  we 
have  seen,  attracted  his  attention,  and  he  gazed  through  the 
window.  There  stood  the  noble  Shylock,  on  the  platform, 
moving  slowly,  holding  in  his  hand  the  banner,  on  which 
was  inscribed  the  words  we  have  seen.  The  letters  were 
enormous,  and  Mr.  Emngham  read,  without  difficuly,  "  Miss 
Beatrice  Hallam,  the  delight  of  the  noble  aristocracy  and 
the  wonder  of  the  universal  world." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  smiling  grimly,  as  the  procession  passed 
slowly  on  ;  "  yes,  she  is  the  delight  of  the  noble  aristoc 
racy  !  I  am  one  of  that  noble  aristocracy,  I  believe,  and 
she  is  my  delight.  Ah,  Madam  Beatrice  !  you  go  on  now  in 
pride  and  happiness,  scorning  me,  and  all  who  are  not  your 
abject  slaves ;  but  wait !  You  go  to  affect  to-night,  in  the 
character  of  Ophelia,  griefs  you  have  never  known,  sufferings 
you  can  only  imagine.  Some  day  you  will  suffer  really,  and 
I  shall  be  avenged." 

He  was  not  present  at  that  interview  with  Charles 
Waters,  and  had  not  heard  those  prayers,  and  sobs,  and 
despairing  murmurs,  or  he  would  never  have  uttered  that 
bitter  taunt.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  thinking  of  her,  and 
would  mutter  curses  and  blessings  in  the  same  breath.  He 
had  estimated  justly  his  passion — it  was  not  so  much  love 
as  infatuation.  He  did  hate  and  love,  respect  and  despise 
her ;  at  one  moment  he  thought  her  a  devil,  at  the  next  he 
was  convinced  she  was  an  angel.  But,  by  degrees,  these 
conflicting  emotions  settled  down  into  a  collected  reckless 
ness,  so  to  speak — a  careless,  bitter,  mocking  unconcern,  and 
he  rose  up,  with  a  sneer. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Manager 
Hallam  made  his  appearance,  jovial  and  smiling.  Mr. 
Emngham  sat  down  again. 

"  What  the  devil  puts  you  in  such  a  good  humor,  Hal 
lam  ?  "  he  said,  with  scornful  carelessness. 

"  I  am  laughing  at  the  people,  sir." 

«  The  people  ?  " 

"  Yes,  their  folly." 

«  What  folly  ?  " 

"  At  their  surprise  and  wonder  on  seeing  my  placard.'* 

"  Yes;  that  was  foolish  enough." 


Itt   WHICH    THE    TALK     S    )F    COSTUME.  21 S 

"  They  absolutely  looked  all  eyes,  as  the  grea.  Congreve 
was  accustomed  to  say." 

"  Did  they  ?  " 

"  And  the  negroes  I  " 

"  What  of  them  ?  " 

"  They  looked  like  charcoal,  with  two  lumps  of  fire 
in  it." 

"  Eh  ?  their  eyes,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  They  are  a  facetious  race." 

"  Oh,  sir,  they  would  make  great  comedians,  I  assure 
you.  Now,  there  was  one  monkey-like  boy,  who  went  along, 
blowing  the  trumpet  through  his  hands,  beating  two  stones 
together  for  the  drum,  and  at  times  sawing  his  left  arm  for 
the  fiddle — really,  now,  in  a  way  indicating  lofty  talent." 

"  In  the  low  comedy  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"The  buffoon?'' 

"  Well,  low  comedy  requires  something  like  that.  How 
would  a  company  of  negro  actors  take  here  ?  " 

"Take?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  would  it  attract  ?  " 

"  Strongly — the  attention  of  messieurs  the  justices.  But 
come,  let  us  estimate  the  receipts  to-night." 

"  Impossible,  sir." 

"  Come,  think." 

"  Really  can't  say,  sir." 

"  As  much,  think  you,  as  on  the  night  I  perform  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Effingham,  with  his  usual  disdainful  coolness. 

"  Why,  really — now — I  should  say  not,  sir.  I  calculate 
that  you  would  draw  a  large  crowd." 

"  There  is  but  one  obstacle  to  my  acting." 

"  And  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  Miss  Beatrice  Hallam." 

"  Beatrice ! " 

Mr.  Effingham  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  How  is  it  possible?  "  began  Hallam,  with  some  indig 
nation. 

"  Come,  no  exploding,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  cool 
disdain  ;  "  do  not  affect  astonishment.  You  know  she  does 
not  wish  to  appear  with  me." 


214  IN   WHICH    THE   TALK   IS   OF    COSTUMfi. 

"  Not  wish,  sir  1 " 

«  Yes." 

"  Oh,  you  must  be  mistaken." 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  gloomily. 

"  She  is  young,  sir." 

"  Well,  what  does  that  mean  ?  " 

«  And  diffident." 

"  Bah  1 " 

"  She  would  prefer  acting  with  her  associates.  But, 
throw  any  obstacles  in  the  way — I  would  soon  Stop  that, 
sir  ! " 

"  There  is  a  virtuous  father  for  you  !  You  would  conj- 
mand  your  child  to  do  what  she  wishes  not  to  do  ?  " 

"  She  is  full  of  whims,  sir." 

"  One  of  which  whims  is  a  contempt  for  the  name  of 
Effingham ;  is  it  not  ? "  said  the  young  man,  with  a  curl 
ing  lip. 

"  Oh,  never,  sir." 

"  Come,  now,  deny — " 

"  She  honors,  and  looks  up  to  you,  sir." 

"  She  has  a  queer  way  of  showing  it,"  he  said,  with 
gloomy  scorn.  "  What  makes  her  hate  me  so  ?  I  am  really 
curious  to  know." 

"  On  my  word,  sir,  you  astonish  me,  as  the  great  Con- 
greve  used  to  say  :  Beatrice,  I  am  sure — " 

"  Well,  no  more  protests,  and  curse  the  great  Congreve ! 
Is  the  agreeable  Shylock  still  determined  to  eat  me  for  kick 
ing  him  down  stairs  ?  " 

"  No — no.  He  is  a  reasonable  fellow,  and  will  take  no 
more  notice  of  the  matter.  I  told  him,  sir,  my  opinion  of 
his  disgraceful  conduct  to  your  fair  young  relative,  and  he 
•incerely  regrets  it." 

"  Very  well :  I  will  take  no  further  note  of  the  knave. 
Only,  on  the  next  occasion,  I  shall  pin  him  to  the  wall  with 
out  warning,  like  an  enormous  beetle — my  sword  for  the  pin. 
He  would  be  a  striking  object.  Now,  let  us  talk  of  my 
first  appearance." 

"  Willingly — with  pleasure,  sir." 

"  The  town  is  full  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  more  coming  ?  n 


IN   WHICH    THE    TALK   IS   OP    COSTtiME.  215 

"  Yes  :  they  are  pouring  in." 

"  Well,  if  it  is  now  full,  and  they  are  pouring  in,  by  the 
day  of  opening  the  House  of  Burgesses,  that  is  in  two  days, 
they  will  be  sleeping  in  th«  streets." 

"  Quite  likely,  sir." 

"  And  hence  it  follows,"  continued  Mr.  Effingham,  "  that 
there  is  no  danger  of  having  a  thin  house  to  greet  me." 

"  Oh,  sir  1  " 

"  I  understand  you — " 

"  How  could—" 

"  Yes  !  how  could  the  fashionable  Mr.  Champ  Effingham, 
of  Effingham  Hall,  turning  comedian,  fail  of  a  crowded  house  ? 
You  would  say  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  :  it  is  impossible." 

"  Well — perhaps  you  are  right.  But  I  choose  to  wait, 
and  I  have  fixed  upon  the  day  after  the  opening  of  the 
House,  for  my  debut.  I  shall  appear  in  '  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing.'" 

"  As  you  say,  sir.  Well,  we  can  easily  get  it  up.  The 
honor — " 

"  Bah  :  let  us  have  no  foolery  !  It's  no  honor  to  either 
party.  Now  for  the  dress — the  costume  :  I  have  none  that 
would  suit  the  character." 

"  I  think  I  can  serve  you,  sir — though  my  best  military 
dresses  are  still  at  Yorktown,  in  the  sea  trunks.  I  have  not 
needed  them  yet." 

"  A  military  dress — rough  soldier's  costume,  is  indispen 
sable  :  you  know  very  well  that  Benedick  is  just  from  the 
wars." 

"  Indispensable,  as  you  say,  sir." 

"  Have  you  one  here  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see — " 

And  Mr.  Manager  Hallam,  placing  his  fat  finger  upon  his 
puffy  brow,  repeated  : 

"  I  think  there  is  such  a  costume  in  my  private  trunk, 
in  my  room.  Will  you  go  see,  sir  ?  " 

"Yes:  I'll  follow." 

And  the  two  worthies  went  out,  and  closing  the  door, 
bent  their  way  to  Mr.  Manager  Hallajn's  sleeping  apartment 
•ituatod  on  the  same  floor. 


216         HOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM  BECAME  THE 

CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

HOW  MB.  EFFINQHAM  BECAME  THE  INSTRUMENT  OF  PROVIDENCE1 

THE  apartment  occupied  by  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  was  an 
odd  place,  and  we  regret  that,  from  its  want  of  importance  to 
the  present  narrative,  we  cannot  give  a  description  of  it.  It 
is  sufficient  to  say,  that  the  bed  was  covered  with  heteroge 
neous  costumes,  of  all  ages  and  nations — the  table  with 
prompt-books  and  rolls  of  paper  containing  "  parts " — the 
floor  with  shoes,  buskins,  and  sandals,  which  had  trodden 
many  stages  in  their  day. 

In  one  corner  a  large  trunk,  with  heavy  iron  binding,  and 
knobs,  contained  the  manager's  finer  costumes.  This  trunk 
he  approached,  and  unlocked  with  a  key  which  he  took  from 
the  breast-pocket  of  his  doublet. 

"  Now,  sir,"  he  said,  raising  the  lid,  "  I  think  I  shall 
find  what  we  want." 

"  Good,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  leaning  over  his  shoulders. 

The  manager  took  out  several  parcels. 

"  Those  are  the  fops,"  he  said. 

"  Of  course,  they  would  not  suit  me,"  said  Mr.  Effingham, 
with  his  usual  disdainful  indifference. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  These  are  the  first  class  costumes — for  the  heroes," 
Baid  the  manager,  unrolling  another  parcel. 

"  That  would  suit  me  as  little,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham. 

"  Yes,  sir — I  mean — " 

Luckily  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  was  relieved  from  his  lame 
apology.  A  servant  entered,  and  said  : 

"  There's  a  gentleman,  sir — Mr.  Joyce,  sir — to  see  you — 
to  get  a  private  box  at  the  theatre,  sir." 

Hallam  rose  quickly,  which  possibly  might  be  owing  to 
a  slight  love  of  money. 

"  Say  I  am  coming,"  he  replied  to  the  servant :  then 
turning  to  Mr.  Effingham,  he  added,  "just  wait  for  me,  sir — 
I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  These  business  matters  must  be 
attended  to." 

And  with  these  words  he  hurried  out  of  the  room,  puff- 


INSTRUMENT   OF   PROVIDENCE.  217 

ing  and  red  in  the  face.  Mr.  Effingham  had  received  thi» 
speech  with  extreme  indifference,  and  gazed  with  great  dis 
dain  on  the  half-emptied  trunk  :  then  he  seemed  to  change 
his  mind,  and  stooping  down  he  turned  over  and  tossed  the 
costumes  about,  carelessly.  Suddenly  his  eye  fell  upon  one 
which  seemed  to  suit  perfectly  his  purpose.  It  was  a  dark 
military  coat,  with  heavy  embossed  buttons,  and  an  embroi 
dered  collar.  He  took  it  up,  and  said  aloud  : 

"  Well,  here  is  what  will  answer  my  purpose,  I  suppose 
— a  pretty  heavy  bundle  !  Come,  let  us  try  it  on." 

Had  he  done  so,  the  whole  course  of  this  narrative, 
thereafter,  would  have  been  different — how  different  no  one 
can  tell.  But  he  changed  his  mind  before  unrolling  it,  and 
added : 

"  Bah  1  I  cannot  judge  ! — let  us  go  to  Madam  Beatrice, 
and  ask  her  opinion.  Doubtless  she  will  afford  me  her  valu 
able  advice  most  willingly  and  sweetly.  Of  course  she 
will." 

And  leaving  the  trunk  open,  he  walked  carelessly  along 
the  passage,  and  scarcely  taking  the  trouble  to  knock,  entered 
Beatrice's  apartment. 

The  young  girl  was  engaged  as  usual,  in  studying,  and 
looked  completely  exhausted.  Her  eyes  were  heavy  and 
red,  her  cheeks  pale  and  thin ;  in  her  very  attitude  there  was 
an  indescribable  air  of  weariness  and  sorrow  which  was 
painful  to  behold.  The  round  shoulders  drooped,  the  head 
inclined  toward  one  side — seemed  to  be  bent  down  by  some 
ever-present  grief:  the  bosom  labored  and  heaved:  she 
seemed  to  draw  breath  with  difficulty.  For  a  moment  Mr. 
Effingham  stood  looking  at  this  eloquent  picture,  returning 
her  silent  and  cold  gaze. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  studying  as  usual,  I  see  1 
Keally,  madam,  you  will  injure  your  health,  which,  as  you 
know,  is  very  dear  to  me." 

There  was  great  bitterness  in  these  words :  but  Beatrice 
made  no  reply. 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  he  said,  still  more  bitterly ;  "  per 
haps  I  am  not  worth  answering,  madam." 

Beatrice  raised  her  cold,  heavy  eyes,  and  looked  at  him 
fixedly. 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  I  am  in  no  humor  to  converse  thii 
morning,"  she  replied,  coldlj 
10 


218         HOW  JtR.  EFF1NGHAM  BECAME  THE 

"  With  me :  you  never  are,  madam." 

"  With  no  one,  sir." 

"  Are  you  sure,  madam  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Perhaps  your  dear  friend  is  an  exception." 

"  What  friend,  sir  ?  " 

w  The  Chevalier  Waters,"  replied  Mr.  Effinghaa  with  a 
sneer. 

A  flush  of  pain  and  wretchedness  threw  a  lurid  glow 
upon  the  young  girl's  brow,  and  she  trembled. 

"  Come,  now,  madam,  get  angry  if  you  please.  That  is 
your  favorite  amusement  when  I  chance  to  address  you." 

She  bent  down  and  made  no  reply :  and  this  seemed  to 
irritate  her  visitor  more  than  any  words. 

"  Really  your  ladyship  is  in  a  charming  mood  to-day," 
he  said,  with  a  scornful  curl  of  the  lip ;  "  you  have  chosen  a 
new  and  brilliant  means  of  insulting  me." 

"  Mr.  Emngbara,"  said  Beatrice,  raising  her  head  with 
cold  solemnity,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  sorrow, 
"  I  insult  no  one,  sir.  I  have  said  that  I  was  not  disposed 
to  converse  to-day.  I  am  not  well,  sir." 

"  You  are  always  sick  when  I  visit  you,"  said  the  young 
man,  pitilessly  :  his  passion  had  changed  his  whole  charac 
ter  :  "  you  hate  my  very  face,  I  believe.  My  presence  is 
a  discord.  I  have  given  up  every  thing  for  you,  and  you 
scorn  me  1  Beware,  Beatrice  Hallain  1  God  will  punish 
youl" 

Her  lip  quivered,  and  she  looked  strangely  at  him. 

"  Have  you  come  to  make  me  more  unwell  than  I  am, 
sir  ?  "  she  said,  pressing  her  hand  upon  her  breast. 

"  No,  madam,"  he  said,  with  his  former  bitterness.  "  I 
came  on  business,  strictly  professional." 

"  What  is  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  To  ask  your  most  respectable  opinion  of  my  costume, 
in  the  character  of  Benedick.  Having  determined  to  ruin 
myself,  I  wish  to  do  it  handsomely — with  the  best  bow  I 
have  and  in  the  most  appropriate  costume  I  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Beatrice,  taking  no  notice  of  his  terri 
ble  irony,  "  I  listen." 

And  she  closed  her  book. 

"  This,  which  I  hold  in  my  hand,  madam,  appears  to  mf 
to  be  very  suitable  for  the  character  of  Benedick." 


INSTRUMENT   OF    PROVIDENCE.  219 

•  I  do  not  know,  sir." 
He  was  a  gentleman,  you  know,  madam." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Ruined." 

"  I  do  not  remember,  sir." 

"  Yes,  ruined  in  the  wars — like  myself,  by  this  infatua 
tion  I  have  for  you :  wounded  and  scarred  as  I  am  by  your 
scorn." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  we  waste  time." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,  madam,  my  grief  and  agony  are  nothing 
to  you — I  had  forgotten." 

"  My  own  occupy  my  whole  thoughts,  sir." 

"  Really  !  then  you  have  griefs  too." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Agony  perhaps." 

"  Overpowering  agony,  sir,"  she  said,  hoarsely,  and  with 
a  trembling  lip.  He  looked  at  her  in  silence,  and  said,  with 
some  feeling, 

"  Then,  you  really  suffer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

«  Deeply  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  have  some  pity  on  my  own,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
of  anguish,  which  was  most  affecting.  "  I  love  you,  you  scorn 
me  !  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ?  It  means  days  and 
nights  of  agony — hours  of  despair,  such  as  the  bitterest 
foe  would  not  inflict  on  his  worst  enemy — sleepless  hours  in 
the  dim  night,  when  the  rain  pours,  and  the  winds  groan,  and 
your  own  groans  reply.  Have  you  no  pity,  Beatrice  ?  " 

He  stopped,  overcome  with  so  many  conflicting  and  ter 
rible  emotions,  bending  down  his  head  and  groaning. 

"  Did  you  only  know  what  it  is  to  love,  and  know  that 
love  can  never  solace  your  life  !  "  he  continued,  passionately  ; 
"  to  see  the  paradise  open  and  then  close  upon  you  !  to  love 
madly,  and  feel  the  cold  hand  of  fate  pushing  you  back  in 
exorably  ! " 

These  broken  words  painted  her  own  condition  with  such 
truth  that  Beatrice  uttered  a  moan. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Then  pity  me  1 " 

"  I  do,  sir,  from  my  heart  1 " 


220  HOW    MF.    EFFINGHAM   BECAME   THE 

His  face  flushed. 

"  And  nothing  more  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  No,  sir— no,  no  1  "  she  said,  shrinking  back. 

"  Ah,  you  despise  me — you  hate  me  !  " 

"No,  sir." 

"T.  ruin  myself  for  you,  and  you  meet  me  with  a  con 
temptuous  smile." 

"  I  do  not,  sir." 

"  You  will  not  love  me." 

"  I  cannot,  sir  I  " 

"  You  love  another,  perhaps,  madam — already  you  have 
selected  your  future  husband ! "  he  said,  becoming  again 
bitter  and  scornful  as  before. 

Beatrice  turned  pale. 

"  I  shall  never  marry,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  am  not  good  enough  for  you,  I  make  no  doubt, 
madam !  " 

"  You  taunt  me,  sir." 

"  I  do  not — I  offer  you  my  hand  1 " 

"  I  cannot  accept  it." 

*  Never  ?  " 

«  Never ! " 

"  Then  we  shall  see,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  that 
bitter  and  reckless  laugh  which  at  times  issued  from  his  lips, 
"  /orce  against  force  !  " 

Beatrice  colored,  and  said,  coldly : 

"  That  is  a  defiance,  sir." 

"  Yes— to  the  death." 

"  I  despise  it,"  she  answered,  with  haughty  coldness  : 
then  murmured,  turning  away,  "  God  pardon  me ! " 

"  Ah,  that  is  not  singular ;  contempt  for  the  person  ne 
cessarily  comprehends  as  much  for  all  he  can  effect." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  I  am  weary — I  have  my  part  to  study." 

"  Well,  madam,  permit  me  to  trespass  upon  your  kind 
patience  for  a  moment  still.  I  came  to  ask  of  your  great 
experience  if  this  coat  will  suit  my  part." 

u  You  may  see  at  a  glance,  sir,"  she  said,  frigidly,  "  that 
it  is  moth-eaten,  and  unsuitable." 

'•  Ah  I  I  had  not  perceived  that.  Pray  what  shall  \ 
wear?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir." 


INSTRUMENT    OF    PROVIDENCE.  22'i 

"  You  act  Beatrice  in  the  comedy,  I  believe—  or  do  some 
of  those  delightful  characters  your  father  has  picked  up  here 
in  the  colony,  and  trained  to  murder  dramas,  take  the  part?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,  Mr.  Effingham,"  she 
said,  coldly. 

"  But  Beatrice  is  young  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Brilliant  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  very  scornful  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,  sir." 

"  Then  it  will  suit  you  admirably.  Young,  brilliant, 
and  scornful  1  Could  the  description  answer  more  perfectly  1 
Shakespeare  must  have  known  you  !  " 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  your  great  pleasure  in  life  seems  to  lie 
in  insulting  me." 

"  Insulting  ?  Really  you  are  very  unreasonable,  ma 
dam—" 

"What,  sir— is  not— ?" 

"  No,  madam,  let  me  say,  even  at  the  expense  of  polite 
ness — for  I  know  how  ill-bred  it  is  to  interrupt  you — no,  it 
is  not  an  insult,  only  the  truth  !  It  is  very  amusing,  very 
laughable,  but  it  is  true — that  you  really  scorn  me.  As  tc 
the  young  and  brilliant,  that  is  undeniable  in  your  lady 
ship's  presence." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  I  am  exhausted — your  voice  agitates 
me — pray  leave  me,  sir — " 

Mr.  Effingham  listened  to  these  coldly-uttered  words  of 
dismissal  with  an  internal  rage,  which  broke  forth  and  dis 
played  itself  in  a  mocking  and  harsh  laugh. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  very  lofty,  madam  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sneer ; 
"  you  bring  your  queenly  airs  from  the  stage  for  me  !  No 
thing  that  I  say,  nothing  that  I  do,  provokes  any  thing  but 
scorn  and  contempt  from  you !  I  have  not  sacrificed  enough 
to  you,  perhaps  !  Do  you  know  what  trifling  things — mere 
trifles,  madam — I  have  left  to  follow  your  diabolical  eyes  1 
I  have  only  forfeited  the  affection  of  my  family,  only  lost 
my  position  in  society,  only  struck  cruelly  a  pure  young 
girl's  heart,  who  loves  me  1  I  have  only  left  peace  and  hap 
piness  for  agony  and  rage ! — only  abandoned  love  and  ten 
derness  for  scorn  and  contempt — only  given  up  loving  faces 


222  MR.    E.    THE   INSTRUMENT   OF   PROVIDENCE. 

and  caressing  hands  for  a  woman  who  hates  me  and  repulses 
me !  These  are  mere  trifles,  madam  ! — they  are  nothing  I 
What  is  the  love  of  Clare  Lee — that  is  her  name — to  me, 
compared  to  your  overwhelming  tenderness  and  affection  ? 
True,  we  have  loved  each  other,  I  may  say,  I  think,  for 
years ;  true,  we  were  bred  together,  and  have  always  felt  a 
tenderness  toward  each  other  deeper  than  words  could  utter 
or  the  eyes  speak  !  True,  her  face  filled  with  sunshine  when 
she  saw  me,  as  my  heart  overflowed  with  joy  at  her  innocent 
smiles!  But  what  of  that?  You  are  all  this  to  me  and 
more  !  Your  love  is  a  treasure  greater  than  her  own  ;  what 
matter  if  her  heart  is  broken ;  what  if  she  gazes  from  bar 
father's  window  on  the  Hall  which  she  once  thought  she 
would  enter  as  my  wife,  and  sobs  and  moans,  and  feela  that 
henceforth  life  is  dark  to  her — as  I  feel  it  is  to  me  ?  Your 
tender  heart,  your  loving  nature,  your  mild,  angelic  soul, 
your  overwhelming  love  for  me  will  more  than  make  me 
forget  her.  What  matters  it  if  the  poor  girl  dies  broken 
hearted,  are  you  not  all  my  own  ?  " 

And  overpowered  by  rage,  and  remorse,  and  agony,  his 
brow  wet  with  perspiration,  his  lips  trembling,  all  his  form 
shaking  with  the  terrible  war  of  emotions  so  profound  and 
bitter,  the  unhappy  young  man,  waiting  for  no  reply,  rushed 
from  the  room.  Beatrice  rose  from  her  seat,  trembling  with 
excitement,  and  bursting  into  tears  of  agony,  cried : 

"  Oh,  is  this  really  true  !  Is  this  a  horrible  dream,  or 
not  1  God  has  cursed  me !  all  that  I  approach  is  ruined. 
Oh,  can  I  be  the  cause  of  this  dreadful  suffering,  which  I 
feel  myself,  in  the  heart  of  a  pure,  young  girl  ?  God  pity 
me  1  But  no,  it  shall  not  be  1  "  she  cried;  "  my  life  ia  lost 
and  ruined — my  very  soul  is  giving  way  !  But  this  stain 
shall  not  rest  upon  my  memory — no,  no  !  Oh,  her  name  1 
I  heard  it — near  his  father's  house — I  will  go  there — tell 
her  all — God  give  me  strength  !  " 

And  hastening  out,  she  ordered  her  horse,  made  her  pre 
parations  quickly,  and  was  soon  upon  her  way  to  River-head 
galloping  feverishly. 

So  feverish  had  been  her  emotion,  that  she  had  not  ob 
served  the  presence  of  an  object,  which  Mr.  Efiingham  had 
dropped  upon  the  floor  of  her  apartment. 


BEAT1UCE  HALLAM  AND  CLARE  LEE.         223 

CHAPTER   XL. 

BEATRICE  HALLAM  AND  CLAEE  LEE. 

SHE  reached  Riverhead  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time ; 
and,  dismounting  at  the  gate,  hastened  to  the  door,  and 
trembling,  shuddering,  followed  the  astonished  servant  into 
the  reception-room,  where  she  fell  into  a  chair,  exhausted, 
overcome,  and  shedding  torrents  of  tears. 

A  light  step  startled  her,  and  she  rose,  trembling,  from 
her  seat.  The  young  girl  she  had  asked  for,  stood  before 
her. 

"  Did  you  ask  forme — Clare  ?  "  said  the  young  girl,  won- 
deringly. 

"  Oh,  yes !  for  you  ! "  cried  poor  Beatrice,  clasping  her 
hands  and  sobbing:  "I  could  not  breathe  until  I  saw  you! 
I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  am  not  the  miserable  creature  that 
you  think  me  1  that  I  am  not  so  abandoned  as  to  wrong  you 
so!" 

Suddenly  Clare  recognized  her  rival,  whose  features  had 
been  hidden  by  the  partial  darkness  of  the  room.  She  drew 
back  with  a  sudden  faintness. 

"  Yes  !  you  shrink  from  me  !  "  cried  Beatrice,  with  in 
expressible  anguish  in  her  voice ;  "  and  perhaps  you  are  not 
wrong — you  have  heard  so  much  falsehood  of  me  1  But 
you  wrong  me  bitterly — my  heart  is  bursting  with  this  load 
of  unjust  scorn — I  cannot  bear  it  1  It  is  cruel — oh,  it  is 
unjust  I " 

And  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed 
passionately.  Clare  felt  as  if  she  were  about  to  faint;  but 
indignation,  and  the  bitterness  of  wounded  love  and  pride 
sustained  her.  She  looked  at  Beatrice  with  scorn,  and 
shrunk  from  her  as  she  approached. 

"  Do  not — do  not  touch  me  1 "  she  said,  alternately  flush 
ing  and  turning  pale. 

"  Oh,  you  are  cruel  1  "  cried  Beatrice,  wringing  her  hands; 
'  you  are  cruel  and  unjust !  He  told  me  you  were  tender 
and  that  every  body  loved  you — and  I  find  you  with  a  heart 
harder  than  stone  1  You  have  no  pity  on  me — you  scorn 


224         BEATRICE  HALLAM  AND  CLARE  LEE. 

me — my  very  presence  is  loathsome  to  you !  Oh,  madam, 
it  is  unjust ! — it  is  a  bitter  and  unmerited  punishment  1  I 
never  could  have  come  had  I  really  expected  this — though 
what  more  had  I  the  right  to  expect  ?  But  he  told  me  you 
were  so  good — that  your  heart  was  so  pure — that  you  were 
in  such  distress — how  could  I  live  with  the  thought  thai 
you  despised  and  scorned  me  !  " 

Clare  shrunk  further  back  and  trembled.  Then  she  had 
been  the  topic  of  careless  conversation  between  this  unworthy 
creature  and  her  lover  !  Her  name,  and  her  love  for  him, 
even,  had  been  bandied  in  tavern  purlieus  with  scoffs,  and 
rude  jests,  perhaps !  He  had  said  she  was  "  so  good  " 
— doubtless,  deriding  her  soft,  tender  manner,  so  tame,  com 
pared  with  the  fiery  and  brilliant  carriage  of  this  shameless 
creature  ! — her  "  heart  so  pure  " — no  doubt  contrasting  de 
risively  her  simple  truth  with  the  scoffing  boldness  of  this 
woman  !  Then,  to  crown  the  whole,  he  had  told  this  woman 
that  she,  Clare,  was  "  distressed  " — that  she  was  pining  for 
him  ! — that  she  envied,  hated,  would  give  life  to  hold  the 
position  of  that  rival  in  his  affections  !  This  last  bitter 
thought  put  the  finishing  touch  to  Clare's  agony,  and  she 
rose. 

"  I  can  listen  to  no  more,  madam  !  "  she  said,  hoarsely, 
and  with  inexpressible  anguish  and  indignation  in  her  altered 
voice.  "  You  are  deceived — Mr.  Effingham — if  you  refer  to 
him — Mr.  Effingham  is  nothing  to  me  !  " 

And,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot,  she  looked  at  Bea 
trice  with  an  expression  of  sick  and  scornful  aversion,  which 
pierced  the  poor  girl's  heart  like  a  dagger. 

"  Oh,  no — no  !  do  not  look  at  me  so  !  "  she  cried,  clasp 
ing  her  hands,  and  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break ;  "  do 
not  look  at  me  so  1  I  am  not  the  unworthy  creature  you 
think  me  I  I  am  innocent  1  He  sought  me — has  persecuted 
me  with  attentions  I  abhor — he  has  made  my  life,  dark 
enough,  God  knows,  already,  darker  still  by  his  eternal  per 
secution.  Oh  1  madam,  you  have  no  right  to  scorn  me  I 
You  have  no  right — however  much  you  may  hate  me  1  I 
am  innocent  before  God  of  any  thing  done  to  give  you  pain — 
this  rash  young  man  has  done  all  1  Do  you  think  I  am  his 
paramour,  madam  ?  I  see  your  cheek  flush  and  your  eyes 
flash !  Poubtless  your  maiden  purity  is  shocked  by  the 


BEATRICE  SALLAM  AND  CLARE  LEE.  225 

very  word.  But  we,  madam,  we  poor  actresses  have  to  look 
at  and  bear  things  coarsely,  and  call  them  by  their  names. 
God  forgive  you,  if  you  thought  that  of  me  !  I  am  a  poor, 
unhappy  girl,  with  no  defence  but  my  self-respect ;  but  I 
am  innocent — innocent  as  a  child,  in  thought  as  in  deed  !  " 

And  sobbing,  moaning,  shedding  floods  of  tears,  Beatrice 
stood  before  the  young  girl  like  an  angel  pleading  for  a  word 
of  love,  of  charity.  Her  fair  hair  had  fallen,  from  the  vio 
lence  of  her  emotion,  her  snowy  arms  had  let  the  cloak  cover 
ing  them  fall  down,  her  face  was  eloquent  with  a  sorrow  and 
despair  which  sublimated  its  tender  beauty,  and  would  have 
touched,  indeed,  any  but  a  heart  of  stone. 

Clare's  was  that  heart ;  she  only  saw  how  lovely  this 
young  girl  was ;  she  only  saw  in  her  a  triumphant  rival, 
darkening  her  life,  and  taking  from  her  him  she  loved. 
What  did  it  concern  her  whether  this  woman  was  innocent 
or  not?  And  the  frigid,  sick,  and  scornful  look  remained. 
She  pointed  to  the  door,  and,  unable  to  say  more  than — 
"this  interview — must — end!"  hoarsely  and  almost  in- 
audibly. 

"  No,  no  !  it  shall  not  end,"  cried  Beatrice,  wringing  her 
hands,  and  sobbing,  and  speaking  with  passionate  grief;  "it 
shall  not  end  until  you  have  heard  me  !  I  am  innocent — 
Oh  !  I  am  innocent— before  God  !  your  distress  is  not  upon 
my  hands  !  He  came  and  addressed  me  on.  the  stage,  the 
first  night  I  appeared  in  this  country — I  drew  back  and  en 
deavored  to  avoid  him  !  He  came  to  see  me  the  next  day. 
I  tried  to  deny  him  any  converse  with  me ; — he  staid, — he 
came  again  and  again — he  has  made  my  life  wretched  !  I 
shrink  when  I  see  his  face,  or  hear  his  voice ! — Ah,  I  am  in 
nocent  of  wounding  you, — as  God  hears  me,  I  am  innocent !  " 

And  falling  on  her  knees,  Beatrice  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  shook  with  passionate  weeping.  She  seemed  so 
broken  and  overwhelmed  by  her  sorrow,  her  accents  were  so 
profoundly  miserable,  she  resembled  so  much  some  tender 
bird,  wounded  mortally  and  about  to  fall  and  die,  that  Clare,  ' 
with  all  her  pride  and  love,  and  hatred  and  indignation, 
melted.  She  struggled  with  herself,  echoed  the  sobs  of  Bea 
trice,  and  then  turning  from  her,  murmured  : 

"Leave  nn — I  cannot  speak  —  I  pardon  you  —  God 
Will-" 


226  BEATRICE  HALLAM  AND  OLARE  LEE. 

There  she  stopped,  overcome  by  emotion.  Beatrice  rais 
ed  her  head. 

"  Oh,  I  have  done  nothing  to  ask  pardon  for  !  "  she  cried, 
in  a  voice  of  bitter  anguish.  "  God  is  iny  witness,  that  I  have 
acted  as  a  loyal  and  pure  woman  !  I  saw  your  scorn  of  me 
was  unjust,  and  it  is — it  is  ! — for  I  am  innocent — I  had  no 
part  in  inflicting  this  wound  upon  you ;  you  have  reason  to 
hate  me — but  you  cannot — no  !  no  !  you  cannot  scorn  me !  " 

"  I  do  not,"  muttered  poor  Clare,  sobbing  and  turning 
away. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  1  We  poor  girls  are  not  like  you  ladies, 
protected  and  surrounded  by  every  comfort,  able  to  choose 
our  associates,"  continued  Beatrice,  weeping,  but  betraying 
great  feeling  at  these  words  from  Clare.  "  God  exposes  us 
to  every  persecution  and  temptation !  We  are  met  with  in 
toxicating  applause  upon  the  stage — a  dangerous  and  fatal 
thing  ! — and  there  we  fancy  that  we  are  really  something 
more  than  human !  Alas  !  we  go  out  in  the  sunlight,  and 
those  hands,  which  applauded  us,  repulse  us ;  those  smiles 
are  turned  to  frowns  !  The  commonest  woman  that  toils  in 
the  meanest  employment,  is  more  worthy.  Contempt  is  our 
portion — for  what  are  we  but  abandoned  playing  girls  !  Or, 
if  not  contempt,  what  is  more  dreadful — oh !  so  dreadful, 
madam,  that  you  in  your  pure  home  here  cannot  imagine  it. 
The  temptation  which  a  strong  man  offers  to  a  defenceless 
girl,  without  a  thought  of  that  avenging  God  who  looks  down 
on  this  world  ! — I  will  not  speak  of  it — I  shudder  to  think 
of  it ! — my  brain  burns,  and  my  temples  throb  ! — God  decreed 
that  I  should  fill  the  position  I  do,  and  I  know  its  terrors  and 
its  snares.  Oh,  do  not  undervalue  them,  madam  !  if  a  poor 
weak  girl  comes  from  that  furnace  of  fire,  still  pure  in  all 
things,  she  is  not  fit  for  scorn  I  " 

And  the  poor  agitated  breast  labored  and  heaved,  the 
cheeks  were  bathed  in  tears,  the  childlike  hands  trembled 
and  could  not  arrange  the  hair,  falling  around  the  face  so 
eloquent  and  pure. 

And  Clare  felt  her  true  woman's  heart  moved — with  that 
high  truth  and  worth  which  the  reader  will  find  she  possess 
ed  from  future  pages  of  this  narrative.  She  violently  sup 
pressed  her  sorrow  and  wounded  love ;  she  saw  only  a  poor 
broken-spirited  girl  before  her — a  inera  child  she  seemed  j 


BEATRICE  HALL  AM  AND  CLARE  LEE.        227 

praying  and  sobbing,  and  entreating  mercy — or  rather  justice, 
but  simple  justice. 

"  I  have  listened — to  you — and  pity — you — and  do  not, 
cannot  scorn  you — or — h.ate  you — "  she  said,  in  a  broken 
and  agitated  voice,  shedding  tears  as  she  spoke.  "  If  I  have 
been — unjust — to  you,  I  pray  for  your  pardon  1  We  are  all 
weak — and — poor ; — God  does  not  permit  us  to  scorn  each 
other !  " 

And  covering  her  face  with  one  hand,  she  felt  as  if  eartl 
was  dark  for  ever  for  her  from  that  day — heaven  only  left. 

Beatrice  heard  these  words  with  passionate  delight,  and 
burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  good  1 "  she  cried,  seizing  the  hand 
of  the  young  girl,  which  hung  down,  and  covering  it  with 
kisses  ;  "  you  are  too  good  and  noble,  to  speak  so  kindly  to  a 
poor,  weak  child  like  me  I  Oh,  Q-od  will  reward  you  !  God 
sent  me  to  you,  to  hear  these  blessed  words  from  you — to 
know  that  my  existence  was  not  wholly  cursed !  God  had 
pity  on  me,  and  inspired  me  with  the  thought !  Oh,  say 
again  that  you  will  not  hate  or  scorn  me ; — forget  that  I  am 
a  common  actress,  one  of  a  proscribed  and  branded  class — 
one  who  has  cruelly  wronged  you,  however  innocently ; — 
forget  that  I  am  so  much  your  inferior  in  goodness, — forget 
that  my  life  has  been  thrown  in  contact  with  so  much  that  is 
vile  1  See  before  you,  at  your  feet,  only  a  poor  weak  girl, 
who  prays  you  not  to  scorn  her  ! — See  in  me  a  feeble  creature, 
like  all  mortals,  weak  and  stumbling  and  sinful,  like  all  the 
world,  but  with  good  impulses  and  pure  feelings  like  the 
purest !  Oh,  bless  me  again  with  the  sound  of  your  kind 
voice — I  am  so  helpless  !  so  broken-hearted —  so  overborne 
by  agony  and  suffering !  "  she  continued,  strangling  a  pas 
sionate  sob  at  the  thought  of  Charles  ;  "  so  wretched — ah  ! 
so  miserable  ! — Speak  to  me  ! — one  more  kind  word,  before 
I  leave  you — Oh,  for  pity's  sake  !  " 

And  covering  the  hand  she  held  with  kisses,  she  hall 
rose  in  an  agony  of  weeping.  And  that  hand  she  held  was 
no  more  drawn  away.  The  trembling  forms  approached 
each  other  with  a  last  shudder,  and  the  two  women  were  in 
each  other's  arms  :  the  bitter  rivals,  the  wronged  and  she 
who  had  wronged  her,  the  actress  and  the  lady  !  Sobbing 


228    HOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM  RODE  FORTH,  AND  BEFORE 

upon  each  other's  shoulders,  trembling  like  a  single  agitated 
form,  they  wept  in  silence. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards  Beatrice  was  on  her  way 
back  to  Williamsburg.  God  had  spoken:  her  tears  wera 
happy  tears. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

HOW  MB.  EFFINGHAM  BODE  FORTH,  AND  BEFORE  MIDNIGHT  BE- 
APPEABED  EN  MILITAIRE. 

AFTBR  uttering  that  mad,  passionate  speech,  so  crammed 
with  bitter  and  scornful  irony,  Mr.  Effingham,  as  we  have 
seen,  flung  from  the  young  girl's  room,  in  an  access  of  rage, 
which  tore  him  like  a  vulture's  talons.  He  had  passed 
through  many  of  these  fiery  interviews  lately,  and  had  many 
such  pale  rages,  which  tore  his  heart  for  a  time,  then  slowly 
subsided,  like  a  storm  muttering  away  into  the  distance. 
On  this  occasion  he  found  himself,  as  usual,  grow  somewhat 
calmer,  when  her  cold  and  inexorable  face  was  removed 
from  him ;  and  soon  his  bitter,  reckless  smile  returned,  and 
mockery  replaced  anger. 

He  went  back  to  the  manager's  room,  and  threw  the 
costume  disdainfully  into  the  trunk;  then,  scarcely  con 
scious  of  what  he  was  doing,  proceeded  to  restore  the  various 
bundles  to  their  places.  Fate  still  directed  him,  for  who 
knows  what  would  have  occurred  if  that  fit  of  absence  had 
not  seized  him,  and  he  had  left  those  dresses  where  they 
lay — throwing  down  carelessly  the  one  he  had  brought  back 
upon  them  ?  He  had  just  slammed  down  the  lid  of  the 
trunk  violently,  when  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  returned. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  you   are  tired  of  the 
search  ;  are  you  ?  " 
• "  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  think  there  was  little  good  in  it.  My  military 
costumes  are  still  at  Yorktown." 

"  Are  they  9  "  said  Mr.  Eflingham,  coldly. 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  I  informed  you." 

"  Did  you  ?  ' 

"  Ha,  ha  1  don't  you  recollect,  air  ?  " 


MIDNIGHT  REAP!  EARED  EN  M.'LITAIRE.  229 

"  How  tan  I  ?  I  have  just  had  such  a  charming  inter 
view  with  your  amiable  daughter." 

"  Ah !  have  you,  sir  ? "  said  Mr.  Manager  Hallam 
anxiously;  for  hia  matrimonial  project  never  left  hia 
thoughts. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mr.  Effingham,  with  scornful  careless 
ness  ;  "  I  think  she  is  beginning  to  like  me." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  sir,"  said  the  delighted  worthy. 

"  She  seemed  to  brighten  up,  when  I  entered." 

"  Did  she,  indeed  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  did  !     She  seemed  delighted  to  see  me  !  " 

"  She  is  the  most  truthful  and  sincere  girl  in  the  world 
— a  gold  mine  would  not  make  her  smile,  if  she  did  not 
choose  to,'?  said  Hallam,  with  real  fraternal  pride. 

"  Quite  true,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham  ;  "  she  is  perfectly 
sincere." 

"  Indeed  she  is,  sir." 

"  And  plain-spoken." 

"  Oh,  remarkably  !  " 

"  And  we  spent  half  an  hour  delightfully." 

"  You  are  gaining  on  her,  sir." 

"  You  think  she  don't  hate  me,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir  !  " 

"  Come,  answer." 

"  Hate  you,  sir  ?     Never,  sir  1  " 

"  How  then  ?     Does  she  love  me  ?  " 

This  somewhat  embarrassed  Mr.  Manager  Hallam ;  for 
the  young  girl's  demeanor  to  Mr.  Effingham,  when  he  had 
observed  it  lately,  was  exceedingly  far  from  supporting  an 
answer  in  the  affirmative.  But  he  replied,  at  once  : 

"  I  think  she  will  in  time,  sir." 

"  In  time  !  " 

"  Very  soon,  sir." 

"  Really  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  have  observed  little  things  of  late  which 
prove  to  me  that  you  are  acquiring  her  affection ;  and  she  no 
longer — " 

"  You  are  right — I  understand — she  no  longer  scorns, 
and  insults,  and  hates  me — " 

"Oh,  sir  1" 

"  She  no  longer  tells  me  that  she  will  never  look  at  me 


230        HOW  MR.  BFFlNGflAM  IlObE  FORTfi,  AND  BfiFORB 

but  with  hatred  and  aversion.  In  our  interviews  now  sh« 
smiles,  and  presses  my  hands  tenderly,  and  seems  to  pity  my 
pale  cheeks,  and  languid  eyes — my  health  is  dear  to  her — 
or  becoming  dear — she  is  beginning  to  love  me.  Yes,  as 
you  very  justly  say,  sir,  I  am  '  beginning  to  acquire  her 
affection'!" 

And  the  young  man  laughed,  with  terrible  irony — a 
laugh  which  jarred  upon  Manager  Hallam's  ears,  and  dis 
pelled,  unpleasantly,  the  agreeable  impression  the  words 
were  calculated  to  produce. 

"Bah!"  continued -Mr.  Effingham ;  "let  us  leave  love 
matters,  and  come  to  business.  You  have  no  Benedick  cos 
tume  here  ?  " 

"  Really — I  believe  not,  sir  ;  but — " 

"  Have  you  at  Yorktown  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  sir." 

"  In  trunks  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  are  they  ?  " 

"  Stored  in  the  warehouse." 

"  Good ;  then  you  have  a  complete  Benedick  dress  at 
Yorktown  in  trunks,  stored  in  the  warehouse  ?  "  said  Mr 
Effingham,  summing  up  with  disdainful  nonchalance. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Give  me  the  key." 

"  The  key,  sir?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  get  the  dress. 

"  You,  sir !  " 

"  Certainly ;  what  the  devil  are  you  staring  at  ?  ' 

«  Why— really,  sir—" 

"  Give  me  the  key  1  " 

"  Of  course,  sir ;  here  it  is,"  said  the  manager,  taking  a 
huge  iron  key  from  a  drawer  of  the  table. 

"  Is  there  but  one  trunk  ?  " 

"  Three,  sir." 

«  Well,  the  dress—" 

"  Is  in  the  green  one,  bound  with  brass  hoops." 

"  Very  well.  They  know  me  there ;  and  when  I  assure 
them  further  that  I  am  a  member  of  the  company,  there  will 
be  small  difficulty.  Order  my  horse,"  he  added  to  a  ser« 
yant  passing  through  the  passage. 


MIDNIGHT  REAPPEARED  EN  MILI±AIRE.  23 

And  the  young  man,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  say 
good-bye  to  Hallam,  went  out,  and  going  along  the  passage, 
entered  his  own  room,  leaving  the  worthy  manager  in  a  state 
of  stupor,  staring  after  him. 

"  Well,  really,"  said  Manager  Hallam,  at  length,  "  that 
young  man  is  an  extraordinary  character.  I  don't  know  how 
to  deal  with  him.  He  snubs  me ;  I  feel  he  is  continually 
a-roasting  me,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  answer.  He  has 
such  lordly  airs- -worse  than  the  great  Congreve.  Well,  ha 
is  going  to  act,  and  go  to  the  ball  with  Beatrice  ;  and  then 
I'll  have  him.  He  is  not  good  enough  for  her,  I  know, 
except  that  he  is  so  rich.  Effingham  Hall  comes  to  him,  I 
understand  ;  and  that  is  enough." 

With  which  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  began  to  dream  of 
the  clover-enveloped  life  which  he  desired  so  ardently. 

An  hour  or  two  afterwards  Mr.  Effingham  issued  forth, 
clad  as  before  in  his  rich  foppish  costume — only  that  his 
slippers  were  replaced  by  elegant  riding  buskins  reaching 
a  little  above  the  ankle  and  ornamented  with  rosettes :  he 
seldom  wore  boots,  then  rapidly  becoming  the  fashion  among 
all  classes.  In  his  hand  he  carried  an  elegant  gold-orna 
mented  riding  whip — and  so  he  mounted,  and,  as  the  evening 
closed  in  stormily,  set  forth  toward  Yorktown. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  it  began  to  rain  heavily,  and 
this  circumstance  distressed  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  exceed 
ingly;  without  reason,  however,  for  the  theatre  was  cram 
med  from  pit  to  dome,  and  Beatrice  had  never  been  more 
completely  overwhelmed  with  applause,  or  had  acted  with 
such  overpowering  splendor.  They  could  not  know  what 
gave  that  supernatural  power  to  the  young  girl's  voice,  that 
marvellous  reality  to  the  expression  of  her  lips  and  eyes — 
but  they  saw  the  wonderful  genius,  and  rose  up  with  a 
shout  that  drowned  the  thunder  rolling  through  the  sky 
without. 

Long  before  midnight  the  storm  cleared  away,  and  in 
the  now  silent  streets  the  stroke  of  a  horse's  hoof  was  heard, 
and  this  horse  stopped  before  the  Raleigh.  Mr.  Effingham 
dismounted,  and  summoning  the  sleepy  servant,  gave  his  ani 
mal  into  his  hands. 

The  horse  was  covered  with  sweat,  and  his  mouth  drop 
ping  foam. 


232  WHAT   MR.    EFFINGHAM    HAD   DROlPED. 

Mr.  Effingham  was  clad  in  a  complete  military  suit- 
huge  boots,  curved  heavy  sword,  broad  belt,  and  Flanders 
hat.  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  had  no  such  costume  in  his  re 
pertory,  and  indeed,  Mr.  Effingham  had  not  visited  the  good 
town  of  York,  at  all 


CHAPTER    XLII.    , 

WHAT  MR.  EFFINGHAM  HAD  DBOPPED. 

BEATRICE  had  reached  Williamsburg  just  as  the  theatre  was 
about  to  commence,  and  was  compelled,  without  losing  a  mo 
ment,  to  hurry  away  to  her  painful  duty.  We  may  fancy 
that  she  felt  little  disposition  to  appear  that  evening :  but 
one  of  the  lessons  of  her  hard  life,  was  an  unhesitating  sacri 
fice  of  private  feelings  to  her  duty,  and  she  repaired  to  the 
theatre,  without  even  tasting  a  morsel.  Indeed,  she  could 
not  have  eaten  any  thing — her  heart  was  too  much  overcome 
by  the  thousand  conflicting  emotions  she  had  experienced 
throughout  the  day ;  and  she  did  not  feel  weak.  Something 
sustained  her,  and  she  began  her  part  with  strange  calmness. 
Never  had  she  acted  better,  as  we  have  seen — but  those  tu 
multuous  plaudits  fell  upon  unheeding  ears  :  they  were  now 
painful  to  her — as  that  profession,  which  a  cruel  destiny 
forced  her  to  pursue,  was  revolting  and  a  cruel  trial.  She 
made  her  concluding  bow  with  the  same  coldness  which  had 
characterized  her,  when,  on  her  entrance,  she  had  been  greeted 
with  thunders  of  applause ;  and  then  calmly  returned  to  tho 
Raleigh.  She  wished  to  be  alone  with  her  grief — to  shed 
tears  without  being  subjected  to  the  wondering  questions  of 
any  person  : — she  Wished,  after  delighting  the  crowded  au 
dience,  and  sending  them  away  thinking  how  rapturous  her 
happiness  and  pride  must  be  at  such  intoxicating  praises— 
Bhe  wished  to  go  and  sob  her  heart  into  calmness,  in  the 
stillness  of  her  chamber. 

Bidding  her  father  good  night  with  a  kiss  at  the  door  or 
her  little  room — from  which  another  door  led  to  her  bed 
chamber — the  young  girl  entered  and  lighted  a  taper.  Then 
she  observed  for  the  first  time,  on  the  floor,  that  object  which 


WHAT    MR.    EFFINGHAM    HAD    DROPPED.  233 

Mr  Effingham  had  dropped,  when  he  rushed  from  the  room, 
and  which  in  the  tumult  of  her  feelings  she  had  lost  sight 
completely  of. 

It  was  a  little  frock,  such  as  were  worn  by  very  young 
children ;  and  so  slight  was  it,  that  Mr.  Effingham  had 
doubtless  not  observed  that  it  had  escaped  from  the  bundle 
which  he  held  in  his  hand.  Beatrice  picked  it  up,  and  ex 
amined  it  wonderingly,  completely  at  a  loss  to  understand 
how  such  a  thing  had  gotten  into  her  room.  Why  does  she 
start  so — why  does  her  cheek  flush,  then  grow  pale  again  ? 
On  the  collar  of  the  little  frock,  is  written  in  distinct  though 
faded  letters,  "  Beatrice  Waters  !  " 

Beatrice  sat  down,  feeling  too  weak  to  stand  :  a  sudden 
faintuess  invaded  her  heart,  and  her  temples  throbbed. 
"  Beatrice  Waters  ! — Beatrice  Waters !  "  What  did  this 
mean  ?  Whence  could  the  frock  have  come — who  brought 
it  thither  ?  Beatrice  Waters  ?  Had  Charles  then  guessed 
correctly,  and  did  the  letters  "  B.  W.,"  on  the  locket  really 
mean  this  ?  She  felt  her  mind  whirl — her  face  flush  and 
turn  white  again — some  indefinable  presentiment  seemed  to 
seize  upon  her,  and  the  frock  fell  from  her  hand  to  the  floor. 
For  some  minutes  the  young  girl  remained  motionless — 
then  she  picked  the  dress  up  again.  Suddenly  she  felt 
something  in  the  pocket,  and  drew  it  out.  It  was  a  letter 
— faded  and  discolored,  and  worn  at  the  edges.  She  tore  it 
open  and  run  her  eyes  eagerly  over  it — trembling — coloring 
— growing  pale — breathing  with  difficulty.  Then  it  fell  from 
her  hand,  arid  pressing  the  other  hand  upon  her  heart,  she 
leaned  back  overcome,  as  though  she  were  about  to  faint. 

The  letter  was  in  these  words — words  traced  in  faded 
yellow  ink. 

"  A  man  about  to  die,  calls  on  the  only  Englishman  he 
knows  in  this  place,  to  do  a  deed  of  charity.  Hallam,  we 
were  friends — a  long  time  since,  in  Kent,  Old  England,  and 
to  you  I  make  this  appeal,  which  you  will  read  when  I  will 
be  cold  and  stiff.  You  know  we  were  rivals — Jane  chose 
to  marry  me  1  I  usftd  no  underhand  acts,  but  fought  it  fairly 
and  like  an  honest  soldier — and  won  her.  You  know  it,  and 
are  too  honest  a  man  to  bear  me  any  grudge  now.  I  mar 
ried  her,  and  we  went  away  to  foreign  countries,  and  I  be- 


234  WHAT   MR.    EFFINGHAM    HAD    DROPPED. 

came  a  soldier  of  fortune — now  here — now  there  : — it  rnni 
in  the  family,  for  my  father  was  covered  with  wounds.  She 
stuck  to  me — sharing  all  my  trials — my  suffering — as  she 
shared  my  fortunate  days.  She  was  my  only  hope  on  earth 
— my  blessing : — but  one  day  God  took  her  from  me.  She 
died,  Hallam,  but  she  left  herself  behind  in  a  little  daughter 
— I  called  her  Beatrice,  at  the  request  of  her  mother.  The 
locket  around  the  child's  neck,  is  her  mother's  gift  to  her  : 
preserve  it.  Well:  we  travelled — I  grew  sick — I  came  to 
Malta,  here — I  am  dying.  Already  I  feel  the  cold  mounting 
from  my  feet  to  my  heart — my  eyes  are  growing  hazy,  as 
my  hand  staggers  along — my  last  battle's  come,  comrade  ! 
Take  the  child,  and  carry  her  to  my  brother  John  Waters, 
who  lives  in  London  somewhere — find  where  he  is,  and  tell 
him,  that  Ralph  Waters  sends  his  baby  to  him  to  take  care 
of: — she  is  yonder  playing  on  the  floor  while  I  am  dying.  I 
ask  you  to  do  this,  because  you  are  an  honest  man,  and  be 
cause  you  loved  Jane  once.  I  have  no  money — all  I  had  is 
gone  for  doctor's  stuff  and  that: — he  couldn't  stand  up 
against  death  !  Keep  my  military  coat  to  remember  me  by 
— it  is  all  I  have  got.  As  you  loved  her  who  was  my  wife, 
now  up  in  heaven,  take  care  of  the  child  of  an  English  sol 
dier  ;  and  God  reward  you. 

"RALPH  WATERS. 
"Malta,  March,  1743." 

The  last  words  were  written  hurriedly,  and  were  exceed 
ingly  indistinct ;  as  though  the  writer  had  been  warned  of 
his  approaching  death  by  a  chill  hand  covering  his  eyes , 
but  Beatrice  ran  over  them  like  lightning,  as  by  inspiration. 

We  may  now  understand  why  she  leaned  back  faintly,  drop 
ping  the  letter  from  her  nerveless  hand.  Here  was  the 
mystery  illuminated  suddenly  by  a  flash,  which  made  plain 
every  recess,  the  most  gloomy  depths.  All  was  as  plain  as 
light  now  !  She  was  not  Hallam's  daughter ! — that  locket 
was  the  gift  of  her  dying  mother — that  coat  in  Mr.  Effing- 
ham's  hand  the  soldier's — that  little  frock  was  the  garment 
she  had  worn,  a  poor  little  baby,  while  her  brave  father, 
Stretched  upon  his  couch,  was  struggling  with  the  cold  hand 
of  death,  and  dedicating  his  last  moments  to  her  own  safety 
and  restoration. 


WHAT    MR.    EJFINGHAM    HAD    DROPPED.  235 

Her  powerful  and  vivid  imagination  painted  the  scene 
with  lifelike  reality.  The  brave  soldier  dying — the  poor 
apartment — the  trembling  hand  contending  with  the  dread 
angel — those  dim  eyes — herself  a  little  child  unconscious  of 
all  this — and  the  glazing  eyes  fixed  on  her  as  she  laughed  and 
prattled — and  the  last  sigh  of  the  stalwart  breast  a  prayer 
for  her  1  The  scene  was  so  real  that  she  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears,  and  sobbed  until  she  was  completely  exhausted. 
Oh,  that  dear  father  dying  there  alone  ! — his  brow  covered 
with  the  sweat  of  the  death  agony,  far  away  from  frienda 
and  home,  in  a  foreign  land  I  That  strong  frame  fighting 
with  the  destroyer — that  face,  which  dawned  on  her  memory 
now  like  a  dim  dream,  convulsed  with  pain  and  dread  for 
her  after  fate ! 

How  could  she  bear  to  think  of  this  and  not  feel  her 
very  soul  overwhelmed  with  an  agony  like  that  which  he  had 
suffered  ?  And  she  wept  and  sobbed,  and  shook  with  the 
tempest  of  her  feelings;  and  then  slowly  grew  more  calm. 

Why  had  she  not  been  restored  to  her  friends.  Was  not 
that  old  man,  whose  son  had  s;A'ed  her,  her  uncle — Charles 
her  cousin  ?  And  this  thought  dazzled  her  mind,  for  a  mo 
ment  darkened  by  that  scene  of  death,  plain  through  so 
many  misty  years.  Yes,  yes  1  she  had  heard  the  boatman 
Townes  call  him  "  Old  John  Waters."  Thousands  in  the 
colony  had  come  from  England  to  retrieve  their  fortunes, 
and  this  must  be  her  uncle  ! 

Overwhelmed  with  this  new  weight  of  thought — bewil 
dered  by  this  new  light  streaming  upon  her  mind,  she  felt 
her  brain  for  a  moment  totter,  and  pressed  it  with  her  hand. 
The  uiher  hand  was  laid  on  her  breast,  through  which  shot 
an  acute  pain ;  that  hand  fell  upon  the  locket — her  mother's 
locket — and  drawing  it  forth,  she  pressed  it  passionately  to 
her  lips,  and  again  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

Her  mother  1  her  poor  mother,  who  had  loved  her  dear 
father  so  much,  and  been  his  good  angel  until  she  died,  away 
from  her  home  and  friends,  as  he  didl  This  was  her 
mother's,  and  she  pressed  it  convulsively  to  her  lips,  and 
wept  herself  faint  and  quiet.  The  taper  died  away  and 
flickered,  but  she  heeded  it  not ;  for  that  whole  scene  again 
Was  passing  through  her  mind,  and  she  was  far  away  in  the 
bright  south — that  south  which  she  had  rightly  dreamed  she 


236  WHAT    MR.    EFINGHAM   HAD    DROPPEL. 

had  been  born  in.  Scenes  now  came  to  her  which  had  been 
long  buried  in  oblivion — ah  !  so  long ;  kind  faces,  rude  bivou 
acs,  the  implements  of  war — and  orange  groves !  That  far 
dim  past  enveloped  her  with  its  marvellous  breath,  and  from 
it  rose  dear  faces,  tender  smiles,  rough,  rude  caresses  of 
great  bearded  faces,  and  the  sound  of  trumpets.  Those 
trumpets  echoed  faintly  through  the  air,  and  died  away  like 
an  enchanting  harmony — like  the  clear  voices  of  gondoliers 
singing  the  wondrous  lays  of  Tasso,  under  the  starry  skies 
of  Italian  nights.  The  far  muttering  of  cannon  then  rose 
to  her  memory,  and  this,  too,  died  away;  and  then  izas 
beautiful  rosy  headlands,  orange  trees,  and  waves  of  gold 
rolling  their  molten  fire  to  the  great  wide  horizon  in  the 
sunset.  Then  her  thoughts  rushed  backward  to  her  after 
life — the  English  scenes,  the  theatres,  the  rough  city  life, 
the  loud  applause,  the  nights  of  study,  the  days  of  weariness 
and  patient  grief.  Virginia  rose  on  her  last,  and  all  she 
had  suffered — Mr.  Eflingham's  persecutions,  the  scorn  and 
forgiveness  of  that  young  girl  who  loved  him — lastly,  the 
love  and  unhappiness  of  Charles.  That  thought  made  her  cheek 
flush,  she  knew  not  why  1  Would  not  this  change  every  thing 
— would  she  not  leave  the  stage — would  they  not  take  her 
to  their  hearts,  their  long-lost  child  ?  Why  had  her  father 
not  obeyed  that  dying  request  of  her  real  father  ?  Was  it 
because  he  could  not  find  her  uncle,  or  because  self-interest 
was  too  strong  for  him — foreseeing  her  proficiency  in  his  art  ? 
If  the  latter,  was  it  not  cruel  in  him  ?  If  the  former,  did 
she  not  owe  him  deepest  love  for  his  long  years  of  tenderness 
and  care  ? 

Then  these  tumultuous  thoughts  disappeared,  aud  that 
far  dreamy  land  rose  on  her  mind  again — and  with  her  eyes 
closed  she  saw  it  plainly — ah,  how  very  plainly !  She  saw 
again  those  scenes  which  had  but  now  come  back  to  her  with 
a  reality  more  real  than  the  outward  world — a  charm  more 
marvellous  and  grand  than  she  dreamed  possible.  Again, 
those  strong  bearded  faces  shone  on  her  and  uttered  tender 
words — aud  one  was  far  more  tender  than  them  all  1  Again, 
she  heard  those  trumpets  sounding  like  liquid  gold,  shat 
tered  and  sprinkled  in  the  deep  blue  air ;  again  that  faint 
and  solemn  murmur  of  the  distant  cannon  rolled  upon  her, 
aud  spoke  to  her  with  its  grand,  eloquent  voice,  of  a  great 


FROM   THE   MS.  237 

Conflict  and  the  clash  of  arms !  She  heard  them  now  dis 
tinctly — no  longer  dying  away  farther  and  farther  into  the 
dim  past — but  real,  audible  as  reality,  and  instinct  with  a 
heavenly  harmony  which  wrapped  her  heart  in  ecstasy  and 
delight. 

And  then  again  she  saw  that  wondrous  southern  land,  where 
the  blue  skies  drooped  down  upon  a  marvellous  horizon — 
where  the  warm  seas,  covered  with  white-sailed  ships,  were 
ruffled  by  soft  winds,  laden  with  the  rich  perfume  of  orange 
trees  and  flowers — perfumes  that  set  her  dreaming,  breezes 
that  soothed  her  agitation  and  anxiety,  like  winds  from  hea 
ven.  Again,  the  vast  wide  sea  rolled  its  great  liquid  gold, 
its  billows  crested  with  a  fiery  foam  in  the  red  sunset,  gra 
dually  fading  : — and  above  the  whole,  grand  in  its  softness, 
beautiful  for  its  light,  rose  the  dear  father's  face — smiling 
upon  his  child  ! 

The  taper  flickered  and  went  out — she  did  not  heed  it, 
dreaming  of  the  bright  southern  home  and  of  his  face.  She 
leaned  her  head  upon  the  window-sill,  and  dreamed  and 
dreamed  : — sleeping,  those  wondrous  memories  clung  to  her, 
and  when  the  full  sunlight  streamed  upon  the  tender,  gentle 
face,  waking  her,  she  almost  thought  it  was  her  father's  kiss. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

FROM  THE  Ma 

"  LET  us  pause  here  a  moment,"  says  the  author  of  the  MS., 
"  and  observe  how  events  march  onward  obedient  to  the 
great  Chief  of  heaven  ;  how  personages  of  all  ages  and  con 
ditions  are  but  blind  puppets  in  the  hands  of  an  all-seeing, 
all-wise  Providence.  Heaven  decreed  that  this  young  wo 
man  should,  in  Virginia,  be  subjected  to  a  persecution,  more 
systematic  than  she  had  ever  experienced  in  any  other  land 
before — and  this  persecution  proceeded  from  one  of  that 
class  which  social  feeling  then  separated  from  her  own  by 
barriers  as  striking  and  impassable  as  those  existing  between 
the  peasant  and  the  great  lord.  This  persecution  was  to  be 
a  daily  and  systematic  one,  a  trial  of  the  temper  and  the 


238  FROM   THE   MS. 

heart — a  test  of  the  young  girl's  patience  and  her  strength 
It  was  to  come  to  her  at  the  theatre,  in  the  street,  in  her  apart* 
ment — every  where.  It  was  to  insult,  to  worry,  to  irritate, 
to  wound  the  subject  of  its  enmity.  It  was  to  try  the  cha 
racter  of  the  young  woman  to  the  utmost,  as  the  spur  inces 
santly  plunged  into  the  quivering  side  tests  the  endurance 
of  the  noblest  animal. 

"  Then,  not  satisfied  with  this  systematic,  chain-like  train 
of  wounds  and  insults,  Providence  one  day  sent  a  child  of 
the  same  race  as  her  arch-persecutor  to  her  presence  : — and 
from  that  child's  lips  came  words  which  wounded,  mortified, 
humiliated  the  already  overburdened  heart  so  cruelly,  that 
the  poor  heart  had  cried  out  passionately  against  the  injus 
tice,  and  the  bitter,  cruel,  terrible  wrong. 

"  Then,  having  tried  the  young  woman  with  such  apparent 
harshness,  that  same  Providence  began  to  unroll  the  chain 
of  circumstance — that  chain  formed  of  such  a  myriad  of  in 
visible  links,  links  which  by  the  short-sighted  are  called 
'  small  events '  and  '  trifles,'  but  which  hold  the  universe 
together.  The  instruments  of  all  this  persecution  were  to 
hasten  the  light  upon  its  way  to  brighten  Beatrice's  life — 
and  to  do  this,  spite  of  themselves,  not  knowing  what  they 
did.  All  things  were  to  work  harmoniously  to  that  end, 
nothing  was  to  fall  short,  or  occupy  its  wrong  position.  The 
trunks  containing  that  much-coveted  costume  were  at  York 
— hence  the  two  men  were  led  to  open  that  other  one, 
wherein  the  secret  of  a  life  was  shut  up.  The  only  obstacle 
to  the  revelation,  was  the  man  who  knew  it — he  was  called 
away.  That  this  secret  should  dawn  upon  the  proper  person 
first,  the  coat  is  not  unrolled — the  young  man  goes  to  ask 
her  advice.  He  becomes  agitated,  and  in  his  agitation  drops 
the  child's  garment — then  he  returns,  and  instead  of  throw 
ing  down  the  coat  carelessly,  replaces  it  with  all  the  rest  in 
the  trunk  :  the  time  has  not  arrived  for  the  manager  to  know 
that  all  is  known.  Thrown  thus  at  her  very  feet,  the  young 
girl  does  not  see  the  frock,  until  having  ~nade  her  peace  with 
Clare,  she  returns  to  the  stillness  of  her  chamber.  Then 
she  knows  the  whole,  and  all  is  clear  to  her.  But  she  haa 
no  harsh  thoughts  of  the  man  she  had  called  her  father  for 
so  long — sbe  does  not  cry  out  in  bitterness  against  the  cruel 
concealment  which  has  made  her  so  unhappy — which  hai 


THE   GHOST   OF   MR.    EFFINGHAM.  239 

placed  her  in  that  position  which  renders  acceptance  of  the 
hand  of  Charles  impossible.  Why  ?  Because  the  second 
chain  of  circumstance  had  been  unrolled  also.  A  child  had 
been  brought  to  the  place  by  the  presence  there  of  him  who 
had  persecuted  her  : — a  coarse  ruffian  had  frightened  her  : — 
she  had  fled  in  her  terror  to  the  young  girl's  room  : — there 
she  had  left  her  Bible — that  Bible  which  was  to  affect  the 
spirit  of  Beatrice,  as  the  accident — the  world  would  call  it — of 
the  child's  frock  affected  her  life.  That  Bible  was  to  make 
her  meek,  to  give  her  strength  to  bear  the  sneers  and  mock 
ery  and  reproaches  she  was  to  be  subjected  to  in  that  fiery 
interview.  That  Bible  was  to  give  her  strength  to  hold  fast 
to  the  victory  she  had  won  over  herself,  when  Charles  went 
from  her  in  despair — the  thought  of  which  nearly  bent  hex 
resolution,  broke  her  remaining  strength. 

"  Those  two  personages,  man  and  child,  whose  words  had 
wounded  her  more  cruelly  than  all  else,  were  thus  fated  to 
become  the  instruments  of  Providence — the  one  to  reveal 
her  far  southern  birth,  the  other  to  be  the  direct  agent  of 
her  purification — spiritual  birth.  There  was  the  chain — no 
link  of  it  defective — bearing  up  the  weight  of  a  whole  life  , 
shaped  link  by  link  by  Providence,  and  slowly,  certainly  un 
wound  by  hands  which  thought  themselves  at  other  work. 
Is  there  no  overruling  Providence  ?  " 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

HOW  THE  GHOST  OF  ME.  EFFINGHAM  ARRIVED  AT  THE  "BALEIGH," 
AND  CALLED  FOR  SOME  VINO  D'OBO. 

THE  manuscript  from  which  this  veracious  history  is  taken, 
contains  many  passages  similar  to  that  which  we  have  just 
transcribed.  The  writer,  indeed,  seems  very  fond  of  tracing 
thus  the  secret  steps  of  Providence — making  plain  the  won 
drous  ways  of  that  invisible  Power  which  guides  the  uni 
verse  in  its  onward  course — directing  men  and  events  as  it 
rolls  the  great  globe  through  the  realms  of  space,  around 
the  central  sun  of  Eternal  Law.  The  reader  would,  how 
ever,  be  apt  to  complain  were  we  to  transcribe  many  such 


240  THE   GHOST   OF   MR.    EFFINGHAM. 

pages ;  for  this  narrative  is  much  more  a  development  of 
events  and  characters  than  a  bundle  of  essays.  The  worda 
which  men  and  women  utter  are  far  more  powerful  interpret 
ers  of  what  they  think  and  feel  than  any  mere  comment  on 
their  thoughts  and  feelings  by  an  indifferent  person;  and, 
acting  upon  this  conviction,  we  shall  proceed  to  deal  again, 
directly,  with  the  personages  of  the  history. 

We  have  seen  how  Mr.  Effingham,  with  that  blind  and 
obstinate  wilfulness,  had  clung  to  his  determination  to  ap 
pear  upon  the  stage,  and  how  he  had  ridden  forth  to  procure 
the  necessary  costume.  We  have  also  seen  how  he  returned 
to  the  "  Raleigh,"  a  few  hours  afterwards,  equipped  in  a  com 
plete  military  costume  perfectly  adapted  to  the  character  which 
he  designed  to  represent.  Busy  with  other  and  more  im 
portant  events,  we  could  not  follow  him  on  his  night  ride ; 
but  we  now  proceed  to  show  in  what  manner  he  became  pos 
sessed  of  the  costume — a  costume  which  no  less  a  personage 
than  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  himself  had  declared  wonderfully 
appropriate,  not  without  many  exclamations  and  interroga 
tories,  which  were  left  unanswered. 

Mr.  Effingham,  on  the  next  morning,  had  just  repaired 
to  his  room,  after  languidly  conversing  at  the  door  of  the 
"  Raleigh"  with  half  a  dozen  of  the  wild  hangers-on  of  the 
dramatic  company,  to  whose  society  he  had  learned  to  stoop 
in  gracious  condescension,  when  a  singular  circumstance  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  the  worthies  who  surrounded  the 
door.  This  circumstance  was  the  arrival  of  a  traveller, 
who,  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  halted  at  the  door 
of  the  "  Raleigh."  This  event,  it  is  perfectly  plain,  was  not 
in  itself  very  remarkable,  inasmuch  as  travellers  were  accus 
tomed  to  come  and  go  in  Virginia  at  that  period — to  and 
from  Williamsburg  and  the  "  Raleigh" — as  at  present.  The 
observable  circumstance  about  the  foreign-looking  gentle 
man,  who  now  drew  up  and  called  in  a  loud,  hearty  voice  for 
the  ostler,  was  that,  in  his  outward  appearance,  he  presented 
a  perfect  counterpart  of  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Champ 
Effingham.  His  broad,  muscular  shoulders  were  clad  in  a 
rich  velvet  coat,  which  was  stretched  across  them  as  tightly  aa 
the  skin  upon  a  drum;  his  waistcoat  was  of  embroidered  silk, 
and  not  more  than  three  of  the  buttons  had  yielded  and 
given  way ;  his  vigorous  li»bs  were  moulded  on  a  scale  en- 


THE    GHOST   OF    MR.    EFFINGHAM.  241 

tirely  too  large  for  the  velvet  knee-breeches  and  silk  stock 
ings,  which  fitted  so  tightly  as  to  define  every  swelling  muscle 
with  the  utmost  distinctness.  The  "osettes  had  burst  off 
from  his  shoes — his  hands  were  saffron-colored,  and  you 
only  found,  upon  close  inspection,  that  he  wore  gloves  fitting 
as  closely  as  the  cuticle — in  one  of  these  remarkable  hands 
he  carried  a  gold  handled  riding  whip.  As  he  dismounted, 
the  other  hand  arranged  conveniently  the  hilt  of  a  small, 
highly- decorated  sword,  and  then  raised  from  its  owner's 
brows  his  feather-ornamented  hat  of  the  last  London  fashion. 
The  head  thus  bared  was  that  of  a  man  of  about  thirty 
or  thirty-two,  whose  profession  was  evidently  arms.  The 
bright  martial  eye,  black  and  full,  could  not  be  mistaken; 
the  straight  form,  which  indeed  almost  bent  backward,  so 
erect  was  it,  plainly  indicated  the  profession  of  the  worthy. 
The  face  was  an  excellent  one,  not  because  it  was  very  hand 
some,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  word,  but  for  its 
frank  and  bold  carelessness — its  sunshine ;  in  the  open  fea 
tures  mental  and  physical  health  fairly  shone.  The  hair  was 
dark  and  somewhat  grizzled;  the  brow  broad,  and  darkened 
by  sun  and  wind ;  the  eye,  as  we  have  said,  black  and  bril 
liant  ;  the  nose  prominent,  the  chin  and  under  lip  full  of  re 
solution  and  character.  We  say  the  chin  and  under  lip,  be 
cause  the  stranger  wore  a  long  and  very  heavy  moustache, 
as  black  as  jet,  under  which  his  white  teeth  sparkled  when 
he  laughed — very  frequently,  that  is.  For  the  traveller's 
face  seemed  to  be  made  for  laughing — it  was  so  bold,  so 
careless,  he  seemed  to  enjoy  life  so  much  that  laughter  more 
or  less  loud  was  a  necessity  to  him,  and  he  reminded  the 
>bserver  irresistibly  of  Hamlet's  friend,  Horatio.  But  a 
dingle  glance  was  needed  to  perceive  that  this  was 

"  A  man  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 
Had  ta'en  with  equal  thanks  : ' 

a  soldier  who  had  been  tossed  upon  the  surges  of  war,  until 
he  had  grown  quite  indifferent  to  storms,  and,  in  the  gloomi 
est  weather,  still  saw  the  sunshine  through  the  clouds ;  who, 
losing  once,  rattled  the  dice  again  ;  who  took  the  world 
easily,  and  pushed  his  way,  aud  laughed  and  drank,  and 
slept  and  fought,  contented,  endeavoring  still  through  all  to 
do  his  soldier's  duty." 
11 


THE   GHOST   OF   MR.    EFFINGHAM. 

This  is  a  brief  and  Lurried  sketch  of  the  martial  gentl® 
man  who,  stopping  at  the  "  Raleigh"  tavern  that  bright 
morning,  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the  astounded  ostler 
the  bridle  of  his  cob.  Ned,  the  ostler,  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
gazed  at  the  stranger  precisely  as  the  worthies  on  the  por 
tico  were  doing. 

"  Well,  well,  my  friend,"  said  the  traveller,  in  a  strong, 
hearty  voice,  "  what  detains  you  ?  my  horse  is  weary." 

"  Yes,  your  honor — yes,  sir — " 

And  Ned  the  ostler  led  away  the  animal,  with  his  eyes 
still  fixed  upon  the  stranger,  to  the  serious  inconvenience  of 
his  neck,  twisted  until  the  blood  covered  his  face. 

The  stranger  entered  the  "  Raleigh,"  politely  giving  the 
good-day  to  those  gentlemen  who,  after  staring  at  him  with 
a  curious  look,  made  way  for  him. 

Mine  host  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  which  he 
was  addressing  to  one  of  his  numerous  patrons — a  crowd  of 
whom  filled  the  ordinary — and  the  look  which  accompanied 
this  sudden  silence  was  more  eloquent  than  any  words. 
Then,  suddenly  recollecting  himself,  he  bowed  low,  and  said  . 

"  Your  honor  is  looking  for  me,  the  landlord  ?  " 

"  Yes,  parbleu"  said  the  stranger ;  "  my  horse  has 
^•one  to  the  stable,  where  they  will,  doubtless,  take  good  care 
of  him  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  sir — the  best  ostlers,  sir — " 

"  And  now,  mine  host,"  continued  the  stranger,  twirling 
his  mustache,  "  now  a  stall  for  me." 

"  A  stall !  oh,  your  honor,  sir — " 

"  Perpend,  man  ami — a  room,  I  mean." 

"  Oh  yes,  sir — I  understand,  sir.  I  have  an  excellent 
room,  just  given  up  by  Farmer  Williamson — number  8,  sir — 
just  up  there,  sir." 

And  mine  host  pointed  to  the  stairs. 

"  Bon"  replied  his  guest,  "  and  send  me  a  bottle  of  wine. 
I'm  as  thirsty  as  a  fish." 

"  What  will  your  honor  have  ?  "  asked  the  landlord,  still 
riveting  his  eyes  upon  the  extraordinary  counterpart  of  Mr. 
Effingham. 

"  Val  de  Penas — my  favorite  vintage." 

"  I'm  really  afraid,  sir — " 

M  Haven't  the  blood  of  Spain  !  "  interrupted  the  stranger, 


THE    GHOST    OP   MR.    EFFINtiHAM.  243 

who  exhibited  some  disappointment  at  mine  host's  apologetic 
grimace. 

"  We  are  just  out,  sir — exceedingly  sorry,  sir — but  Mr. 
Williamson — " 

"  Well,  well ;  give  me  a  flask  of  vino  cToro.  I  must  l« 
satisfied. 

Mine  host  made  a  second  grimace,  which  was  more 
eloquent  than  words. 

"  What !  none  of  the  vino  d'oro  !  "  cried  the  stranger, 
who  seemed  to  understand  perfectly  well  what  the  expres 
sive  features  of  the  landlord  indicated ;  "  none  of  the  bottled 
sunset,  as  one  of  my  friends  calls  it !  I  really  am  afraid, 
mine  host,"  continued  the  traveller,  shaking  his  head,  "  that 
this  hostelry  of  yours  is  not  a  place  for  an  honest  and  Chris 
tian  soldier  to  tarry  in ; — none  of  the  wine  of  Lebanon  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir  ! — the  most  unfortunate  thing,  I  know — but 
really,  now — my  last  bottle  has  just  been  sent  up  to  Squire 
Wilton." 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  engage  in  single  combat 
against  your  Farmer  Williamson  and  Squire  Wilton  !  Most 
unjustifiable  in  them  to  be  drinking  up  my  favorite  wines  in 
this  way  1  " 

"We  have  some  excellent  claret,  Madeira,  .and  some 
Rhenish,  sir,  which  I  think  your  honor — " 

"  Bon  !     I  choose  the  Rhenish.     Send  it  to  my  room." 

"  Yes,  sir  j  directly,  sir.  Would  your  honor  give  me 
your  name  to  write  in  my  book  ?  I  wish  to  keep  that  book, 
sir — for  my  family,  sir — that  they  may  know  the  distin 
guished  gentlemen  I  have  had  the  great  pleasure  to  enter 
tain,  sir." 

The  stranger's  mustache  curled,  and  his  white  teeth 
shone  under  the  black  fringe. 

"  My  name  ?     Ah,  very  well,"  he  said ;  "  that  is  easy." 

And  raising  up  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  the  stranger  care 
fully  scanned  some  letters  cut  into  the  gold. 

"  My  name  is  Effingham,"  he  said.  "  Parbleu,  I  had 
forgotten  it;  as  nothing  is  more  troublesome  to  recollect 
than  names." 

And,  leaving  the  landlord  in  a  state  of  semi-stupefaction, 
the  stranger  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  who  drew 
back  for  him,  and  went  up  the  stairs.  The  worthies  who 


244  BEATRICE   REVEALS   HER    SECRET. 

had  witnessed  his  arrival,  also,  were  present  at  the  scene  be 
tween  the  traveller  and  mine  host ;  and  now  they  crowded 
round  the  landlord,  to  give  vent  to  their  astonishment.  We 
need  not  take  the  trouble  to  report  their  sage  opinions.  The 
general  conviction  was,  that  Mr.  Effingham  had  a  ghost,  who, 
unlike  himself,  wore  a  mustache,  and  they  waited  for  the  re 
appearance  of  the  spectre. 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

BEATRICE  REVEALS  HER  SECRET. 

"  IT  is  not  a  trifling  thing,  when  some  soul,  the  noblest  and 
purest  ever  sent  by  God  to  bless  us,  is  torn  from  us  by  the 
hand  of  what  seems  a  blind  and  pitiless  destiny.  This  is, 
perhaps,  the  hardest  trial  of  poor,  feeble  human  patience,  and, 
if  the  very  soul  succumbs,  and  the  heart  grows  sour  and  bit 
ter,  is  there  any  room  for  wonder  ?  Under  one  of  these 
overwhelming  strokes,  the  head  bows  down  and  faints,  as  the 
knight  of  the  middle  age,  struck  by  some  gigantic  battle-axe, 
lost  his  firm  place  upon  the  saddle,  and  was  hurled  to  earth. 
All  suddenly  is  gone — all  that  made  life  desirable — the 
sunshine  and  the  blue  skies — in  place  of  them,  darkness, 
despair. 

"  At  such  moments,  poor  humanity  doubts  its  God ; 
that  God  who  does  all  things  for  the  best,  but  does  not 
deign  to  anticipate  the  future  for  his  justification.  It 
is  maddened.  Its  faith,  and  purity,  and  trust  in  God  are 
gone ;  and  the  blood  lingers  in  the  veins,  frozen,  yet  fiery ; 
the  eyes,  by  turns,  glare  and  are  glazed.  Ere  long  this 
passes,  however,  and,  if  the  mercy  of  God  is  not  manifest, 
still  the  heart  forces  itself  to  believe — to  trust  in  that  mercy, 
and  then,  with  the  slowly-dragging  hours,  some  of  the  bit 
terness  passes ;  the  day  is  not  so  dark ;  and  if  the  sunshine 
cannot  lie  with  such  a  glory  on  the  earth  again,  at  least  we 
know  and  feel  it  is  not  wholly  gone  away  for  ever,  but  is 
there  behind  the  lurid  cloud,  from  which  crashed  the  great 
thunderbolt  which  struck  us. 

"  These  trite  sentences  may  indicate,  in  some  measure, 


BEATR-CE    REVEALS    HER    SECRET.  Al 

the  feelings  of  Charles  Waters,  when,  leaving  Beatrice  ifter 
that  interview,  in  which,  overwhelmed  by  her  agitatio  i,  she 
had  fainted  he  left  Williamsburgh  pale  and  despairing." 

Thus  writes  the  author  of  the  MS. 

For  days  his  soul  was  the  prey  of  bitter  and  conflicting 
passions.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  how  completely  she  had 
grown  to  be  a  portion  of  himself.  He  never  knew  how  much 
he  loved  her  until  he  lost  her.  And  now,  when  all  the 
powers  of  his  being  were  subdued  to  an  unutterable  tender 
ness  for  that  bright,  gentle  creature — when  he  could  not 
think,  or  read,  or  study,  or  see  any  thing  around  him,  for 
her  ever-present  image — now,  when  he  loved  her  passion 
ately,  with  the  full  force  of  his  affluent  and  large  nature 
— now  he  felt  an  impassable  barrier  rise  up  between  them — 
a  huge  wall,  more  durable  than  adamant — more  lofty  than 
the  stars — a  barrier  which  defied  his  utmost  efforts,  which 
must  separate  her  eternally  from  him.  He  raved  and  tore 
his  hair ;  he  felt  his  heart  growing  sour — all  those  great  and 
noble  thoughts,  which  were  wont  to  tenant  the  palace  of  his 
mind,  like  a  troop  of  radiant  angels,  fled  away ;  and  if  he 
again  attempted  to  gather  hope  or  tranquillity  from  the  pure, 
veiled  brows,  they  changed  and  gibbered  at  him  like  a  troop 
of  imps,  and  jeered  and  fled  away  with  horrible  mocking 
laughter  ! 

So  days  passed — nights,  almost  sleepless :  calm  suc 
ceeded. 

He  began  to  feel  the  dignity  of  suffering : — he  rose 
grander  from  his  despair,  and  saw  the  sunlight  through  the 
clouds — the  light  of  heaven.  With  his  brow  resting  on  his 
clasped  hands,  the  strong  man  prayed,  and  went  forth  in  the 
quiet  evening,  and  was  comforted.  Nature  looked  on  him 
with  her  soft,  luminous  eyes,  and  the  bright  river,  and  the 
autumn  forest,  spoke  to  him.  He  now  saw  what  his  duty 
was  plainly.  She  was  immovable ;  he  knew,  he  felt,  that  she 
was  lost  to  him  :  that  she  might  passionately  yearn  to  fall 
upon  his  bosom,  but  not  yield.  She  might  love  him  far 
more  deeply  than  she  had  done — still,  he  felt  well  convinced 
that  she  would  be  equal  to  the  struggle  with  herself.  She 
could  not  turn  his  life  into  splendor, — be  his  dear  wife  :  he 
had  no  claim  upon  her,  would  not  ask  to  have  any.  But  he 


246  BEATRICE  ?.EVEALS  HER  SEIRBT. 

eould  watch  over  her — protect  her — if  necessary,  match  hii 
own  heart  and  arm  against  that  insulting  annoyer. 

Yes,  all  was  lost  to  him — but  she  had  gained,  at  least : — 
and  so  he  returned  to  his  labors  in  the  field,  and  having 
finished  his  work,  entered  the  house  where  his  old  father 
dreamed  in  the  chimney  corner,  to  prepare  himself  for 
another  visit  to  the  town.  The  old  man  and  his  son  ex 
changed  a  tender  greeting  as  he  passed  into  his  small  apart 
ment,  and  taking  off  his  blanket  coat,  he  donned  his  usual 
doublet  of  coarse  drab.  As  he  was  putting  on  his  hat,  he 
heard  voices  in  the  next  room,  and  going  thither  found  him 
self  in  the  presence  of  a  servant  whom  he  had  seen  frequent 
ly  at  the  "  Raleigh."  The  servant  delivered  to  him  a  note, 
directed  succinctly  "  to  Mr.  Charles  Waters." 

He  opened  it  with  a  flush  upon  his  brow,  and  read  : 

"  Please  come  to  me.  BEATRICE." 

A  sudden  paleness  chased  away  the  crimson  flush,  and 
the  young  man  turned  away  and  fell  into  a  chair. 

"  Answer,  sir  ?  "  said  the  negro  boy.  He  made  a  move 
ment  of  his  head,  and  muttered  : 

"  I  will  come — say  to  Miss  Hallam  that  I  shall  come 
at  once." 

And  again  he  read  the  simple  words  which  had  aroused 
such  a  tumult  in  his  heart.  Her  hand  had  rested  on  this 

paper ;  she  had  traced  those  words she  was  lost  to  him  ! 

Those  were  the  thoughts  which  made  him  again  breathe 
heavily  and  close  his  eyes. 

Telling  the  old  man  that  he  would  return  very  soon,  he 
left  the  house,  and  took  his  way  towards  Williamsburg. 
Why  had  she  sent  for  him  ?  To  rend  his  heart  by  the  sight 
of  that  paradise  for  ever  closed  to  him  ?  To  trv  herself,  and 
show  him  that  her  life  was  not  wholly  dark  ?  To  say  "  you 
think  that  I  am  wretched,  that  I  suffer  pain  because  you 
suffer — see  1  I  am  calm  ?  "  No  1  none  of  these  thoughts 
dwelt  for  a  moment  on  his  mind :  his  clouded  brow  plainly 
rejected  all  of  them.  Suddenly,  a  light  like  the  flush  of 
dawn  broke  over  those  gloomy  eyes,  and  his  face  brightened 
like  a  midnight  sky,  illuminated  by  some  great  soaring  confla 
gration.  Could  it  be  ?  Could  she  have  sent  for  him  to  say 
"  my  strength  has  failed  me — I  cannot  resist  myself — I  am 


BEATRICE   REVEALS  fiER    SECRET.  247 

too  weak — my  heart,  my  life,  are  yours  !  "  Had  she  relented, 
banished  that  stern  resolution,  given  herself  up  to  what  her 
heart  called  out  for  ? — No  !  and  the  light  changed  to  gloom 
again.  He  recollected  too  well  that  last  faint  cry  of  love 
and  grief,  of  passion  and  despair,  of  weakness  and  strength. 
"  You  cannot  move  me  now — I  have  conquered  myself  1 ' 
No,  no  ! — that  woman's  resolution  was  adamant — he  felt  that 
all  he  loved  her  for  was  against  him  in  the  strife — her  noble 
disinterested  devotion,  and  strength  of  purpose  to  continue 
in  the  right ! — could  she  have  called  upon  him  to  protect 
her  !  had  Mr.  Effingham  dared  to  persecute  her  in  reality  ! — 
and  with  the  thought  his  hand  clenched,  his  breast  heaved, 
his  brows  were  curved  into  a  haughty  frown  ;  his  pace,  already 
rapid,  became  the  walk  of  a  race-horse.  He  would  soon 
know,  for  there  was  Williamsburg  :  he  is  in  the  streets :  he 
passes  through  the  noisy,  laughing,  bustling  throng  :  he  en 
ters  the  inn  :  he  knocks  and  goes  into  her  room — she  is 
there  before  him ! 

Beatrice  rose,  with  such  an  expression  of  mingled  anxiety 
and  joy,  that  he  remained  for  a  moment  without  advancing, 
gazing  at  her  in  silence. 

Beatrice  broke  that  silence : 

"  Oh  !  this  was  very  kind,"  she  said,  with  that  simplicity 
and  tenderness,  which  at  times  made  her  voice  pure  music, 
"  I  could  not  have  expected  you  so  soon." 

And  her  voice  trembled  slightly,  as  she  placed  her  hand 
in  his,  with  fond  and  confiding  affection.  A  tremor  passed 
over  his  frame  as  he  took  it. 

"  Do  you  need  me — has  any  one  annoyed  you  ?  "  he  said, 
coming  with  a  bound  to  his  absorbing  thought. 

"  Oh  no  !  "  said  Beatrice. 

He  breathed  more  freely,  and  sat  down,  passing  his  hand 
over  his  throbbing  brow. 

For  a  moment  they  both  remained  silent,  scarcely  daring 
to  look  at  each  other. 

"  You  sent  for  me  ?  "  he  murmured,  with  his  face  turned 
from  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  Beatrice,  in  the  same  low  tone,  "  I  WM 
troubled,  and  unhappy — no,  not  unhappy — " 

And  her  voice  faltered. 

"  Unhappy  ?  "  he  said,  not  feeling  himself  strong  enough 


248  BEATRICE    REVEALS   HER    SECRET. 

to  encounter  her  gaze:  "what  could  have  made  you  uiv 
happy  ?  " 

The  tone  of  these  words  plainly  indicated  that  his  mean 
ing  was,  "  /  am  the  wretched  and  unhappy  person — your 
suitor  for  a  priceless  boon  denied  to  me — /  have  a  right  to 
feel  miserable,  you  have  not."  Beatrice  felt  her  heart  throb, 
and  her  throat  fill  with  tears. 

"  I  have — much — to  make  me — unhappy  !  "  she  said,  in 
a  broken  and  faltering  voice,  "  very  much." 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  all  have — we  are  mortal,"  he  replied,  in 
a  low  voice,  "  I  have  had  much  myself." 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  of  that,"  cried  Beatrice,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  I  cannot  speak  if  you  do." 

"  I  will  not,"  he  murmured,  his  large  shadowy  eyes 
turning  to  her  own  for  a  moment,  then  averting  their  gaze. 

"  I  am  so  weak  now,  that  I  don't  think  I  could  endure 
another — such — "  and  the  tears  choked  her. 

He  suppressed  his  emotion  by  a  powerful  effort,  and  tak 
ing  her  hand,  said,  sorrowfully  : 

"  You  shall  not  be  agitated  again  by  any  thing  I  say ;  let 
us  not  touch  upon  that  subject  then.  Tell  me  frankly, 
Beatrice,  what  you  wished  me  to  visit  you  for — you  cannot 
have  a  more  devoted — brother  !  " 

Beatrice  looked  at  him,  with  inexpressible  affection,  and 
murmured,  "  that  might  be  nearly  true." 

"  What  ?  "  he  said. 

She  trembled. 

"  I  do  not  think,  father — Mr.  Hallam — is  my  father," 
she  said,  greatly  agitated. 

"  Not  your  father  1 "  he  exclaimed,  raising  his  head 
quickly. 

"  It  is  so  strange  1 "  she  murmured  again,  half  to  her 
self. 
'   "  Not  your  father !" 

"  I  am  certain  that — heaven  has — the  wildest  fiction 
could  not " — 

She  stopped,  overcome  by  agitation. 

"  Beatrice  1 "  he  exclaimed,  rising  erect,  "  something 
strange  has  happened :  you  tremble :  you  send  for  me : 
gpeak  !  What  is  this  in  my  brain,  my  soul ! — What  is  that 
so  strangely  familiar  in  your  features  I — my  brain  strug 
gles — " 


THE   RIVALS   AND    THE   GHOST.  249 

"  Charles  !  I  am  Beatrice  Waters — your  Uncle  Ralph's 
daughter  !  I  feel  it ! — Oh,  heaven  has  removed  my  doubts ! 
— I  d )  not  need  your  assurance  !  You  are  my  cousin !  " 

F  )r  an  instant,  the  two  hearts  beat  fast — the  two  frames 
felt  a  tremor  run  through  them. 

"  Yes  !  heaven  tells  me,  I  am  that  little  child  ! — the 
child  of  a  father  who  died  in  that  foreign  land  ! — but  speak  1 
Had  you  not  an  uncle  Ralph  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  looking  at  her  as  in  a  dream. 

"  Your  father's  name  is  John  1  " 

"  Yes  ! " 

"  You  lived  in  Kent  once  1 " 

"  Yes ! " 

"  In  London  next !  " 

"  Yes ! " 

"  Your  uncle  died  in — " 

"  In  Malta,  twenty  years  ago  ! "  he  said,  scarcely  con 
scious  of  what  he  was  saying,  scarcely  able  to  speak  from 
agitation — wonder — an  overwhelming,  undreamed  of  delight, 
which  paralyzed  his  limbs,  it  seemed,  arresting  the  very  blood 
in  his  veins,  making  a  lifeless  statue  of  him. 

Beatrice  was  almost  as  much  agitated  as  her  companion, 
and  had  uttered  these  hurried  interrogatories  with  a  trem 
bling  voice,  a  heaving  bosom,  a  brow  flushing  and  growing 
pale  by  turns.  But  when  his  last  reply  came — when  he 
said,  "  In  Malta,  twenty  years  ago :  "  then  her  remaining 
doubt  became  a  dazzling  certainty ;  all  mists  swept  away, 
and,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  murmured : 

"  I  am  his  daughter  ! — God  directed  the  orphan's  steps ! 
— I  am  his  child  !  " 

Her  knees  bent  under  her,  and  overcome,  exhausted,  she 
would  in  another  second  have  fallen  upon  his  bosom  : — when 
suddenly  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Mr.  Effingham  en 
tered  the  apartment. 


C  HAPTER    XLVI. 

THE  RIVALS  AND  THE  GHOST. 


THI  rivals  stood  face  to  face,  and  surveyed  ea«h  »thei,  with 
glances  which  flashed  and  crossed  like  lightning. 


THE   RIVALS    AND    THE    GHOST. 

They  were  both  strong  men :  for  one  had  the  strength 
of  passion,  the  other  the  strength  of  resolute  courage,  and 
great  self-control. 

How  the  singular  interview  would  have  commenced,  it  ig 
impossible  to  say — for  all  at  once,  the  wheezy  voice  of  Mr. 
Manager  Hallam  was  heard  at  the  door,  saying : 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Effingham  !  Mr.  Effingham !  I  called  after 
you,  and  you  have  made  me  lose  my  breath,  puffing  after 
you  up  the  stairs.  But  here  is  metal  more  attractive,  you 
would  say,  after  the  great  Congreve — or,  rather,  the  grand 
Shakspeare." 

With  which  words,  the  voice  took  to  itself  the  sem 
blance  of  a  puffy,  red-faced  gentleman,  who  entered  smiling. 

At  sight  of  Charles  Waters,  however,  the  manager's  face 
fell. 

"  Good  morrow,  sir,"  said  Waters,  calm  and  self- 
collected,  spite  of  the  various  emotions  he  still  experi 
enced. 

"  Welcome,  sir,"  said  the  manager,  with  some  constraint. 
"  We  have  a  very  fine  day,  sir — hum  I" 

And  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  cleared  his  throat. 

"  We  do  not  see  you  so  often  as  our  friend  Mr.  Effing 
ham,"  he  added,  for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"  Which  is  probably  attributable  to  the  fact  that  I  live 
here,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham,  coldly. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  You  look  agitated,  Beatrice,"  continued  the  manager, 
turning  to  his  daughter  with  a  constraint  which  was  Tery 
observable. 

Beatrice  turned  away  her  head,  and  murmured, 

"  No,  sir  1 " 
I       u  Are  you  sick  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Waters  left  his  father  well,  I  trust?"  he  continued 
turning  to  the  silent  man. 

"  Perfectly,  sir,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  Commend  me  to  him  when  you  return — I  feel  as  if 
we — had  met  before,"  the  manager  said,  with  some  hesita 
tion. 

His  constraint  was  so  plain,  that  Charles  Waters  deter 
mined  to  remove  it,  by  taking  his  departure.  His  presence 


THE  RIVALS  AND  THE  GHOST.  25 1 

evidently  caused  it ;  and  it  was  not  pleasant  to  benold.  Th« 
strange  and  mysterious  revelation  made  to  him  by  Beatrice 
— a  revelation  which  his  mind  still  struggled  in  vain  to  real 
ize — had  moved  him,  as  we  need  not  say,  profoundly ;  and 
the  sight  of  the  man  who,  beyond  all  doubt,  knew  and  had 
been  the  chief  actor  in  the  hidden  drama,  then  threw  him 
into  unwonted  agitation.  He  wished  for  solitude  and  quiet 
to  collect  his  scattered  thoughts,  and  with  a  few  common 
place  words  took  his  departure. 

He  had  reached  the  top  of  the  stairway,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  descending,  when  he  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

He  turned  round ;  Mr.  Effingham  stood  before  him. 

"  A  moment,  sir  !  "  said  that  gentleman,  haughtily. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  his  opponent  as  coldly. 

"  Mr.  Waters,  I  believe,  who  saved  Miss  Hallam'a 
life  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Waters,  sir." 

"  And  mine  Emngham." 

His  opponent  inclined  his  head  coldly. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  haughtily ;  "  you  will  not 
understand;  you  are  a  marble  statue.  One  would  really 
say  that  my  name  had  struck  upon  your  ears  for  the  first 
time." 

"  No,  sir ;  I  have  heard  it  before." 

"  From  Miss  Hallam,  doubtless  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Coupled  with  a  highly  favorable  opinion,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Ah !  ah  ! — now  we  approach  the  point." 

"  What  point,  sir  ?  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  under* 
stand  your  meaning." 

These  cold  words  seemed  to  irritate  Mr.  Emngham  more 
and  more. 

"  I  mean,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  you  and  Miss  Beatrice 
Hallam  have  been  making  me  the  subject  of  criticism — you 
have  been  indulging  in  abusive  words  relating  to  myself." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir." 

"  Ah  !  indeed  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  as  you  have  thrust  this  conversation  on 
me,  I  will  add,  that  I  have  at  different  times  spoken  of 
yourself — not  abusively — for  that  is  a  species  of  converse 


252  7HB   RIVALS   AND   THE   GHOST. 

tion  which  I  do  net  indulge  in — but  critically  .  -hat,  iir,  I 
confess." 

"  Very  well,  sir.  It  only  remains  for  you  to  repeat  those 
critical  observations." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,"  said  his  opponent,  "  look  at  my  fao«.' 

"  Well,  sir  !  " 

"  If  you  have  ordinary  acuteness,  you  must  perceive  that 
I  adopt  this  tone  of  calmness  by  a  violent  effort." 

"  Well,  sir  ;  permit  me  to  request  that  you  will  deign  to 
look  at  me.  If  I  spoke  my  true  feelings  plainly,  they  would 
cut  as  the  edge  of  a  sword  cuts." 

"A  sword,  sir?" 

"  Yes ;  have  you  one  at  home,  sir  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Ah  1  I  had  forgotten — you  do  not  wear  this  description 
of  weapon." 

His  adversary's  face  flushed,  and  forgetting  all  his  self- 
control,  he  said: 

"  If  I  do  not  wear,  I  use  the  sword,  sir." 

Mr.  Eflingham's  eye  flashed. 

"  Good  !  good  1 "  he  cried  ;  "  when  shall  we  meet  ?  " 

"  Meet,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes ! " 

"  Do  you  purpose  defying  me  to  mortal  combat  ?  " 

"  Precisely,  sir." 

"  The  reason  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  a  gentleman  need  give  another  any 
reason — I  wish  it.  Is  not  that  enough,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  asked  your  reason,  because  it  seemed  to  me,  sir,  that 
if  this  challenge  should  be  given  at  all,  it  should  proceed 
from  me." 

"  From  you  I  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And,  pray,  why,  sir,"  asked  Mr.  Effingham,  haughtily. 

"  Because  I  am  the  aggrieved  party." 

"  You  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  How,  if  it  j  lease  you,  sir  ?  " 

"I  regret  that  'tis  not  possible  for  me  to  explain — and 
this  I  should  have  reflected  upon  before  speaking." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Eflingham,  coldly,  but  cold  only 
by  a  violent  effort,  "  it  is  a  matter  of  little  importance  from 


THE   RIVALS   AND   THE   GHOST.  255 

which  party  the  defiance  comes.  If  from  you,  I  accept ;  H 
you  do  not  send  it,  I  will.  There,  sir !  Is  that  plain  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  sir,"  said  his  opponent,  turning  pale  with 
anger  at  the  disdainful  coldness  of  Mr.  Effingham's  tone,  and 
losing,  at  lastj  all  his  self  control. 

"  Well,  your  answer  ?     I  waive  all  discussions  of  rank." 

His  adversary's  brow  flushed. 

"  Yes,  yes,  sir ! "  he  said,  "  you  are  very  courteous,  and 
I  trust  your  lesson  in  the  sword  exercise  will  be  more  worthy 
of  attention  than  the  present  one  you  give  me  in  politeness.' 

"  Politeness,  sir  !  " 

"  I  mean,  sir,  that  you  adopt  towards  me  a  tone  which 
is  most  insulting  and  unworthy." 

"  Sir  I " 

"  Yes,  most  unworthy.  You  will  waive  all  discussions 
of  rank  !  By  heaven,  sir  !  I  think  the  waiver  should  be  on 
my  side.  Yes,  sir,  you  have  overcome  my  self-control — by 
pure  force  of  continued  insult  driven  me  to  anger.  Well, 
sir,  you  shall  hear  my  thoughts  now.  You  have  thrown  to  the 
winds  all  courtesy,  you  throw  my  station  in  society  in  my 
teeth,  you  think  me  a  peasant — a  mere  boor — who  should 
be  whipped  back  to  his  place  when  be  attempts  to  make  his 
breast  the  barrier  between  a  strong,  passionate  man,  and  a 
weak,  feeble  girl !  For  that  is  your  real  cause  of  quarrel, 
sir ;  you  hate  me  because  I  stand  between  yourself  and  that 
young  girl,  yonder !  Yes,  sir,  you  hate  me,  and  you  ima 
gine  that  I  will  yield  to  you — that  your  sword  will  pass 
through  my  heart,  and  that  you  will  be  left  free  to  persecute 
that  child,  as  you  have  done  already,  without  hindrance. 
Undeceive  yourself !  I  am  no  child  1  I  promise  you  some 
thing  more  than  a  weak  struggle — the  struggle  of  a  girl  en 
deavoring  to  escape  your  approaches.  Yes,  sir  !  you  shall 
have  a  fair  field,  and  my  heart's  blood  if  you  can  take  it  1 
But  guard  well  your  own  !  " 

Mr.  Effingham  was  carried  away  by  his  rage — his  eyes 
filled  with  blood — and,  grinding  his  teeth,  he  drew  his  sword. 

Furious,  blind,  mad  with  passion,  no  one  knows  what  he 
might  have  done,  when,  suddenly,  a  loud  "  Diable ! "  was 
heard,  and  Mr.  Effingham  found  his  sword  knocked  up  by 
the  scabbard  of  another  perfectly  similar  to  it. 

It  was  the  ghost,  who,  coming  (»ut  of  his  roc  m,  had  heard 
the  altercation,  and  arrived  just  in  time. 


254    THE  GHOST  EXPLAINS  WHAT  HAD  TAKEN  ILAOl 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

THE  GHOST  EXPLAINS  TV  HAT  HAD  TAKEN  PLACE  AT  THE  BAOCtH 
ABMa 

MR.  EFFINGHAM  turned  abruptly,  and  saw  his  counterpart — • 
the  exact  fac-simile  of  himself, — as  far  as  dress  went,  be  it 
understood. 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  is  it,  sir?  "  he  said,  coldly,  as  he  sheathed 
his  sword. 

"  Yea,  and  parbleu  !  you  are  my  friend  of  the  Bacon 
Arms  !  Why,  bonjour,  man  ami !  " 

"  Good  day,  sir ;  you  came  just  in  time.  I  was  on  the 
point  of  committing  a  very  foolish  and  unworthy  action, 
which,  no  doubt,  would  have  displeased  this  gentleman." 

"  Morbleu  !  quite  likely  1 "  cried  the  stranger,  twirling 
his  moustache.  "  I  do  not  consider  the  circumstance  by  any 
means  extraordinary.  Displease  him  ?  I  believe  you.  It 
is  calculated  to  displease  a  man  to  have  a  good  short  sword 
run  through  his  midriff  without  even  the  satisfaction  of  mak 
ing  his  own  sword  say  click  1  against  the  invading  weapon  !  " 

And,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  the  stranger  turned 
to  Charles  Waters,  and,  bowing  to  him,  drew  the  sword  from 
the  scabbard  he  held  in  his  hand,  took  it  by  the  point,  and 
presented  the  hilt  to  the  unarmed  man. 

"  If  we  must  have  fighting — and  I  regard  it  as  the  natu 
ral  state  of  human  things — at  least,  let  us  have  fair  play 
my  friends,"  he  said. 

But  Charles  Waters  drew  back. 

"  Thanks,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  but  we  will  settle  our  differ 
ences  elsewhere." 

"  A  duel  ?  "  said  the  stranger.  "  Well,  I  am  not  fond 
of  duels — it  is  a  villanous  mode  of  settling  the  said  differ 
ences.  Hilf  himmel  1  could  any  thing  be  more  unreasonable 
than  such  a  cold-blooded  proceeding  !  Strike,  strike,  com 
panion,  while  the  blood  is  warm ;  strike,  and  so  fall :  or,  if 
you  stand,  shake  hands  and  go  away  with  a  quiet  conscience  1 
Drink,  and  be  friends  !  I  abominate  your  duels,  though  I 
have  fought  many." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  his  reckless 
**  oome  to-morrow  and  see  another." 


AT   THE   BACON     ARMS.  255 

"  Why,  with  pleasure  1 "  returned  the  stranger;  "are  the 
arrangements  made  ?  " 

"  Not  quite,  the  cause  of  strife  having  just  arisen-" 

"  Ah,  ah !  a  pretty  girl  is  in  the  affair  !  Morbleu,  com 
rade,  I'll  see  you  in  your  sword  exercise  with  pleasure, 
though  you  were  going  on  contrary  to  the  rules  just  now. 
A  pretty  girl,  my  life  on  itl  Perhaps  that  charming  little 
comedienne,  Miss  Hallam,  whom  I  have  seen  in  London,  and 
who  is  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head. 

"  Never  fight  about  a  woman,"  he  said,  sagely ;  "  one 
always  regrets  it — always,  comrade." 

"  Permit  me  to  say  that  I  consider  nothing  more  ap 
propriate." 

"  Appropriate !  See  how  opinions  differ.  Perpend, 
compagnon :  if  you  fight  about  the  turn  of  H  card,  the 
rattle  of  a  dice-box  there  is  some  philosophy  in  it — they 
are  worth  it — it  is  rational.  But  about  a  pair  of  eyes — a 
woman  ! — never  1  " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  still  hold  to  my  opinion." 

"  And  are  going  to  fight  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Have  you  a  friend  ?  " 

"Not  yet." 

"  Let  me  act  for  you ;  and  don't  think  I  bear  you  any 
ill-will  for  the  affair  out  yonder.  We  can  easily  cross 
swords  on  that,  if  necessary,  afterwards,"  said  the  stranger, 
with  the  utmost  calmness  and  good-humor. 

"  Thanks,  sir,"  said  Mr  Effingham  ;  "  your  offer  relieves 
me  from  much  trouble,  and  I  accept  it." 

"  Who  is  my  principal  ?  in  other  words,  comrade,  let  me 
have  your  name — Effingham,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  My  own  is — hum — well,  I  am  called  La  Riviere— 
sometimes  Captain  La  Riviere — not  unfrequently  the  Che 
valier  La  Riviere.  Now  for  your  opponent,"  added  the 
stranger,  looking  keenly  at  Charles  Waters. 

'•  My  name  is  Waters,  sir,"  he  said,  "  but  I  really  do  not 
Bee  the  necessity  of — " 

"  Waters  1"  cried  the  stranger:  "tonnerel  is  it  DOB- 
•ibje  1 " 


256   THE  GHOST  EXPLAINS  WHAT  HAD  TAKEN  PLACB 

And  dropping  his  band  to  his  sword  hilt,  he  looked  long 
and  fixedly,  with  a  strange  expression,  at  the  silent  man. 

"  What  surprises  you,  sir  ?  "  asked  Waters. 

The  stranger  made  no  reply ;  he  seemed  to  have  sud 
denly  grown  dumb  ;  then  he  murmured, 

"  Waters  ! — Waters ! — did  you  say  Waters  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;   Charles  Waters." 

The  stranger,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  with  the  samf 
curious  expression  on  the  other,  said  to  Mr.  Effingham  : 

"  I  regret  that  I  shall  have  to  withdraw  my  offer  to  offi 
ciate  as  your  second." 

"  Why,  sir  ?  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  abruptly,  and  with 
some  irritation. 

"  Come,  come,  comrade  ;  because  it  pleases  me.  I  can't 
give  a  reason  at  the  sword's  point,"  said  the  stranger,  coolly 

"  Pardon  my  abruptness,  sir. " 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  returned  the  stranger,  with  great 
good-nature ;  "  and  I  will  state  that  I  think  I  was  well  ac 
quainted  with  a  relative  of  Mr.  Waters,  in  the  Seven 
Years'  War." 

"  With  my  brother,  sir  1  " 

"  Was  he  your  brother,  mon  ami  ?  A  certain  Captain 
Ilalph  ;  was  that  his  name  ?  " 

u  Yes,  yes ;  did  you — " 

"  Know  him  ?  Oh,  perfectly  well  Morbleu,  we  were 
inseparable  1  Excellent  friends—devoted  to  each  other — 
eating  out  of  the  same  platter — drinking  out  of  the  same 
glass — loving  the  same  damsels — marching  together — sleep 
ing  together — defending  each  other — really  inseparable,  on 
the  honor  of  a  soldier  !  " 

And  the  captain  laughed,  until  his  moustaches  curled  up 
to  his  eyes. 

"  I  never  can  think  of  that  man  without  laughing,"  he 
said  ;  "  he  was  such  a  ridiculous  character — had  been  through 
so  many  odd  adventures,  which  he  was  eternally  relating — n 

u  Yes,  yes ;  I  recognize  the  portrait,"  said  Charles  Wa 
ters,  hanging  on  the  stranger's  words. 

"  Faith,  do  you  ?  "  said  the  captain  ;  "  well,  I  should 
recognize  him  in  the  dark.  You  know,  now?  sir,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Mr.  Emngham,  "  why  it  is  not  proper  that  I 
should  act  as  your  second  in  a  duel  with  the  brother  of  mj 
dearest  friend." 


AT    TttE    BACON    ARMS.  257 

"Well,  sir,  as  you  choose,"  said  Mr.  Effingham ;  "you 
are  at  liberty  to  act  as  pleases  you,  of  course." 

"  Of  course ;  and,  therefore,  I  transfer  my  offer  to  Mr. 
Waters,  here." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  said  Charles  Waters,  calmly. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all ;  I  owe  that  much  to  Ralph  ;  but 
parbleu,  I  can't  go  on  the  field  a  perfect  counterpart  of  your 
opponent,"  said  the  stranger,  laughing. 

"  I  have  been  wondering,  sir,  at  the  perfect  similarity." 

The  stranger  laughed  heartily. 

"  The  plainest  thing  in  the  world,"  he  said  ;  "  a  real  case 
of  highway  robbery  at  an  inn,  and  to  this  moment  I  myself 
am  as  completely  in  the  dark  as  to  what  it  means." 

"  It  means  that  I  wanted  your  soldier's  dress,"  said  Mr. 
Effingham,  coolly,  "and  took  it." 

"  Leaving  your  own.  Good !  good !  "  laughed  the 
stranger.  "  Don't  think  I  am  going  to  quarrel,  or  find 
fault.  Nothing  astonishes  me  in  this  world,  and  few  things 
make  me  angry.  Faith  1  I  admired  your  strategy.  Figure 
to  yourself,  as  the  French  say,"  continued  the  stranger, 
turning  to  Charles  Waters,  and  curling  his  black  moustache  ; 
"  imagine  me  stopping  at  the  tavern  called  the  '  Bacon  Arms,' 
half  way  between  this  place  and  York,  the  port  at  which  I 
landed.  I  am  seated  in  the  ordinary,  amusing  myself  by 
tracing  figures  on  the  sanded  floor,  with  my  sword's  point ;  I 
wait  for  the  end  of  the  storm  and  rain,  knowing  the  value  of 
a  good  hostelry,  when,  suddenly,  my  friend  here  enters, 
having  outrun  the  wind,  and  desirous,  like  myself,  of  saving 
himself  a  wetting.  He  looks  at  me — he  admires  my  cos 
tume,  and  faith !  he  had  reason,  for  the  great  Frederic  him 
self  always  regarded  it  with  a  smile  of  approbation.  We 
drink — there  I  am  never  at  a  loss,  morbleu — we  converse — 
we  abuse  the  storm — we  become  excellent  friends.  Now 
mark  the  sequel.  At  eleven  at  night  the  storm  still  rages  ; 
we  agree  to  retire.  Mine  host  has  but  one  bed-room  vacant, 
with  two  beds.  We  go  to  sleep — I  wake  up  in  the  morning 
— and  when  I  come  to  -ook  for  my  proper  habiliments, 
diable  1  they  are  gone.  My  good  friend,  too,  has  vanished, 
leaving,  however,  his  own  dress  1  What  a  comedy  I  Better 
than  Closter  Zeven  1  I  take  up  the  coat — I  regard  th« 


258         THE  GHOSf  EXPLAINS  WHAT  HAL  TAKEN   FLAGS 

breeches — I  put  them  on,  and  turn  myself  in  admiring 
them.  But  faith,  they  were  too  tight !  My  shoulders 
ached — my  breast  felt  as  if  I  was  cased  in  armor — faith,  it 
feels  so  now  !  " 

And  the  soldier  drew  a  long  breath,  which  sent  flying 
from  the  rich  waistcoat  the  two  remaining  buttons;  at  which 
amusing  circumstance  he  laughed  again. 

"  And  now,  man  ami"  he  said,  to  Mr.  Effingham,  "  take 
pity  on  a  poor  defeated  comrade,  who  has  got  the  worst  of 
it,  who  came  along  groaning  over  his  defeat,  who,  in  conclu 
sion,  will  cheerfully  debate  the  right  of  property  in  the 
said  costume,  at  the  sword's  point  1  Come  now,  be  mag 
nanimous;  let  us  have  a  bout  1  " 

"  That  is  not  necessary,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  who 
had  listened  to  the  stranger  with  haughty  indifference ;  "  I 
have  no  need  of  the  dress  at  present,  as  the  occasion  for 
which  I  took  it  in  exchange  for  my  own  is  deferred  some 
days." 

"  Oh,  you  are  welcome  then,  to  it,  comrade,"  replied  the 
stranger,  who,  still  looking  abstractedly  at  Charles  Waters, 
had  not  noticed  the  cold  accent  of  Mr.  Effingham's  voice  ; 
"  when  you  wish  me  to  unsbell  myself,  you  have  but  to  speak, 
and  I  will  cheerfully  do  so.  I  will  even  place  my  whole 
travelling  wardrobe,  at  York  yonder,  at  your  disposal." 

"  Thanks,  sir :  will  you  come  now  and  resume  your 
dress  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  at  once — for  theso  elegant  velvets  worry 
<ne." 

"  First,  however,  let  me  restore  to  you  this  bundle  of 
Bank  of  England  notes,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  taking  from 
his  purse  the  money,  "  I  found  them  in  the  pocket  of  your 
coat — ten  notes  of  ten  pounds  each." 

"  Good — good — I  had  forgotten  them  completely,"  said 
the  soldier,  thrusting  them  into  his  pocket  without  looking 
at  them ;  "  and  now  let  us  proceed  to  your  apartment,  mon 
compagnon.  It  is  understool  that  this  little  affair  takes 
place — " 

"  Day  after  to-morrow,  if  that  is  agreeable  to  Mr.  Wa 
ters,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  his  disdainful  coldness ;  "  I 
have  indispensable  engagements." 

"  What  say  you,  sir  ?  "  the  soldier  said  to  the  other, '  I 
act  for  you." 


AT   THE   BACON    ARMS.  259 

u  When  you  please,  sir,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"  Well,  well  now  :  that  is  arranged.  We  shall  ta.k  over 
scatters  in  the  course  of  the  day." 

And  leaving  Charles  Waters,  the  two  copies  of  each 
other  entered  Mr.  Effingham's  apartment — the  one  augh- 
ing,  joyous,  talking  loudly;  the  other  cold,  silent,  and  with 
a  weary,  reckless  look,  which  made  the  contrast  perfect. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII. 

HOW  HIS   EXCELLENCY,   GOVERNOR   FAUQUIEB,  GAVE   A   GREAT 
BALL,  AND  WHO  WERE  PRESENT. 

THE  day  for  the  meeting  of  the  House  of  Burgesses  had  ar 
rived  : — indeed,  the  scene  which  we  have  just  related  took 
place  on  the  afternoon  preceding  it. 

We  have  already  expended  some  words  upon  the  appear 
ance  of  the  town  for  days  before  this  important  occasion,  and 
can  now  only  add,  that  the  bustle  was  vastly  greater,  the 
laughter  louder,  the  crowd  larger,  and  the  general  excitement 
a  thousand-fold  increased  on  this,  the  long-expected  morning. 
We  have  no  space  to  enter  into  a  full  description  of  the 
appearance  which  the  borough  presented  : — indeed,  this  nar 
rative  is  not  the  proper  place  for  such  historic  disquisitions, 
dealing  as  it  does  with  the  fortunes  of  a  few  personages,  who 
pursued  their  various  careers,  and  laughed  and  wept,  and 
loved  and  hated,  almost  wholly  without  the  "  aid  of  govern 
ment."  It  was  scarcely  very  important  to  Beatrice,  for 
instance,  that  his  Excellency  Governor  Fauquier  set  out 
from  the  palace  to  the  sound  of  cannon,  and  drawn  slowly  in 
his  splendid  chariot  with  its  six  glossy  snow-white  horses, 
and  its  body-guard  of  cavalry,  went  to  the  capitol,  and  so 
delivered  there  his  gracious  and  vice-regal  greeting  to  the 
Burgesses,  listening  in  respectful,  thoughtful  silence.  The 
crowd  could  not  drive  away  the  poor  girl's  various  disquieting 
thoughts ; — the  smile  which  his  Excellency  threw  towards  the 
Raleigh,  and  its  throng  of  lookers-on,  scarcely  shed  any  light 
upon  her  anxious  and  fearful  heart : — she  only  felt  that 
to-night  the  crowd  at  the  theatre  would  be  noisier,  and  iuor« 


260  .  GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL. 

dense  ;  her  duty  only  more  repulsive  toh'er — finally,  that  aft 
this  bustle  and  confusion  was  to  terminate  in  a  ball,  at 
which  she  was  to  pass  through  a  fiery  ordeal  of  frowns  and 
comments  ;  even  through  worse,  perhaps — more  dreadful 
trials.  She  had  not  dared,  that  morning,  when  her  father 
told  her  he  should  expect  her  to  keep  her  promise,  and  ac 
company  the  young  man,  after  the  theatre,  to  the  ball — the 
poor  girl  had  not  dared  to  speak  of  her  secret,  or  to  resist. 
Then  she  had  promised — that  was  the  terrible  truth  ;  and 
so  she  had  only  entreated,  and  cried,  and  besought  her 
father  to  have  mercy  on  her  :  and  these  entreaties,  prayers, 
and  sobs,  having  had  no  effect,  had  yielded ;  and  gone  into 
her  bed-chamber,  and  upon  her  knees,  with  Kate's  little 
Bible  open  before  her,  asked  the  great  heavenly  Father  to 
take  care  of  her. 

All  this  splendid  pageant — all  this  roar  of  cannon,  blare 
of  trumpets,  rumbling  thunder  of  the  incessant  drums,  could 
not  make  her  heart  any  lighter ;  her  face  was  still  dark. 
And  the  spectacle  had  as  little  effect  upon  the  other  person 
ages  of  the  narrative.  Mr.  Effingham,  seated  in  his  room, 
smiled  scornfully,  as  the  music  and  the  people's  shouts  came 
to  him.  He  felt  that  all  that  noisy  and  joyous  world  was 
alien  to  him — cared  nothing  fur  him — was  perfectly  indiffer 
ent  whether  he  suffered  or  was  happy.  He  despised  the 
empty  fools  in  his  heart,  without  reflecting  that  the  jar  and 
discord  was  not  in  the  music  and  the  voices — but  in  himself. 
And  this  was  the  audience  he  would  have  to  see  him  play 
Benedick  ! — these  plebeian  voices  would  have  liberty  to  ap 
plaud  or  hiss  him ! — the  thought  nearly  opened  his  eyes  to 
the  true  character  of  the  step  he  was  about  to  take.  What 
was  he  about  to  do  ?  that  night  he  was  going  to  the  palace 
of  the  Governor  with  an  actress  leaning  on  his  arm — there 
to  defy  the  whole  Colony  of  Virginia,  in  effect  to  say  to 
them — "  Look  !  you  laugh  at  me — I  show  you  that  I 
scorn  you  !  " — then  in  a  day  or  two  his  name  would  be  pub 
lished  in  a  placard,  "  The  part  of  Benedick,  by  Champ 
Effingham,  Esq." — to  be  made  the  subject  of  satirical  and 
insulting  comment  by  the  very  boors  and  overseers.  Thesa 
two  things  he  was  about  to  do,  and  he  drew  back  for  a  mo 
ment — for  an  instant  hesitated.  But  suddenly,  the  interview 
fee  had  with  Hamilton  came  back  to  him,  and  his  lip  was 


ttOVERNOR    FAUQOTER'S    LALL.  26 1 

Wreathed  with  his  reckless  sneer  again.  They  would  not 
permit  him,  forsooth  ! — his  appearance  at  the  ball  with  Misa 
Hallam,  would  be  regarded  as  a  general  insult,  and  a  dozen 
duels  spring  out  of  it ! — he  would  do  well  to  avoid  the 
place ! — to  sneak,  to  skulk,  to  swallow  all  his  fine  promises 
and  boasts  ! 

"  No  I  "  he  said,  aloud,  with  his  teeth  clenched ;  "  by 
heaven  1  I  go  there,  and  I  act !  I  love  her  and  I  hate  her 
more  than  ever,  and,  if  necessary,  will  fight  a  hundred  duels 
for  her,  with  these  chivalric  gentlemen  ! " 

So  the  day  passed,  and  evening  drew  on  slowly,  and  the 
might  came.  Let  us  leave  the  bustling  crowd  hurrying  to 
ward  the  theatre — leave  the  taverns  overflowing  with  revel 
lers — let  us  traverse  Gloucester-street,  and  enter  the  grounds, 
through  which  a  fine  white  gravelled  walk  leads  to  the 
palace.  On  each  side  of  this  walk  a  row  of  linden  trees 
are  ornamented  with  variegated  lanterns,  and  ere  long  these 
lanterns  light  up  lovely  figures  of  fair  dames  and  gallant 
gentlemen,  walking  daintily  from  the  carriage  portal  to  the 
palace.  Let  us  enter.  Before  us  have  passed  many  guests, 
and  the  large  apartments,  with  their  globe  lamps  and  chan- 
deliers,  and  portraits  of  the  king  and  queen,  and  Chelsea 
figures,  and  red  damask  chairs,  and  numerous  card-tables, 
are  already  filling  with  the  beauty  and  grace  of  that  former 
brilliant  and  imposing  society. 

See  this  group  of  lovely  young  girls,  with  powdered  hair 
brushed  back  from  their  tender  temples,  and  snowy  necks 
and  shoulders  glittering  with  diamond  necklaces ;  see  the 
queer  patches  on  their  chins  close  by  the  dimples  ;  see  their 
large  falling  sleeves,  and  yellow  lace,  and  bodices  with  their 
silken  network ;  see  their  gowns,  looped  back  from  the  satin 
underskirt,  ornamented  with  flowers  in  golden  thread ;  their 
trains  and  fans,  and  high  red-heeled  shoes,  and  all  their  puff's 
and  furbelows,  and  flounces ;  see,  above  all,  their  gracious 
smiles,  as  they  flirt  their  fans  and  dart  their  fatal  glances  at 
the  magnificently-clad  gentlemen  in  huge  ruffles  and  silk 
stockings,  and  long,  broad-flapped  waistcoats  and  embroidered 
coats,  with  sleeves  turned  back  to  the  elbow  and  profusely 
laced ;  see  how  they  ogle,  and  speak  with  dainty  softuesa 
under  their  breath,  and  sigh  and  smile,  and  ever  continue 
playing  on  the  hapless  cavaliers  the  dangerous  artillery  of 
their  brilliant  eyes. 


£62  OONEE.NOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL. 

Or,  see  this  group  of  young  country  gentlemen,  followeft 
of  the  fox,  with  their  ruddy  faces  and  laughing  voices  ;  theii 
queues  secured  by  plain  black  ribbon ;  their  strong  hands, 
accustomed  to  heavy  buckskin  riding-gloves;  their  talk  of 
hunting,  crops,  the  breed  of  sheep  and  cattle,  and  the  blood 
of  horses. 

Or,  pause  a  moment  near  that  group  of  dignified  gentle 
men,  with  dresses  plain  though  rich  ;  and  lordly  brows  and 
clear  bright  eyes,  strong  enough  to  look  upon  the  sun  of 
royalty,  and,  undazzled,  see  the  spots  disfiguring  it.  Hear 
them  converse  calmly,  simply,  like  giants  knowing  their 
strength ;  how  slow  and  clear  and  courteous  their  tones ; 
how  plain  their  manners  i 

Lastly,  see  the  motley  throng  of  the  humbler  planters, 
some  of  the  tradesmen,  factors  as  they  were  called,  mingled 
with  the  yeomen ;  see  their  wives  and  daughters,  fair  and 
attractive,  but  so  wholly  outshone  by  the  little  powdered 
damsels ;  last  of  all,  though  not  least,  see  his  bland  Excel 
lency  Governor  Fauquier  gliding  among  the  various  groups, 
and  smiling  on  every  body. 

Let  us  endeavor  to  catch  some  of  the  words  uttered  by 
these  various  personages,  now  so  long  withdrawn  from  us  in 
the  far  past — that  silent,  stern,  inexorable  past,  which  swal 
lows  up  so  many  noble  forms,  and  golden  voices,  and  high 
deeds ;  and  which  in  turn  will  obliterate  us  and  our  little 
or  great  actions,  as  it  has  effaced — though  Heaven  be  thanked, 
not  wholly  ! — what  illustrated  and  adorned  those  times  which 
we  are  now  trying  to  depict.  And  first  let  us  listen  to  this 
group  of  quiet,  calm-looking  men — fame  has  spoken  loudly 
of  them  all 

"  Your  reverend  opponent  really  got  the  better  of  you, 
1  think,  sir,"  says  a  quiet,  plain,  simple  gentleman,  with  a 
fine  face  and  eye.  "'The  Twopenny- Act'  made  out  too 
clear  a  case,  in  mere  point  of  law,  to  need  the  after-clap." 

"  True,  sir,"  his  friend  replies,  smiling  so  pleasantly, 
that  his  very  name  seemed  to  indicate  his  character,  "  but  I 
would  willingly  be  unhorsed  again  by  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Camm,  in  a  cause  so  good.  Every  thing  concerning  Vir 
ginia,  you  know,  is  dear  to  me.  I  believe  some  of  my  friends 
consider  me  demented  on  the  subject — or  at  least  call  m« 
the  '  Virginia  Antiquary.'  " 


UOVBB.NOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL.  263 

"  I  consider  it  a  very  worthy  designation,  sir ;  and  in 
spite  of  my  opinion,  that  '  The  Colonel's  Dismounted'  is  an 
appropriate  title — I  cannot  be  otherwise  than  frank  ever— 
I  am  fully  convinced  that  equity  was  with  you.  BufrTiere 
comes  our  noble  Roman." 

As  he  speaks,  a  tall,  fine-looking  gentleman  approaches, 
with  an  eagle  eye,  a  statuesque  head,  inclined  forward  as 
though  listening  courteously,  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  his  right 
hand  covered  with  a  black  bandage. 

"  What  news  from  Westmoreland,  pray,  seigneur  of 
Chantilly  ?"  asks  the  opponent  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Camm. 
"  Do  they  think  of  testing  the  Twopenny- Act  by  suits  for 
damages  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  says  the  newcomer,  very  courteously ;  "  I 
believe,  however,  that  in  Hanover  county  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Maury  has  brought  suit  against  the  collector." 

"  Ah,  then  we  shall  get  some  information  from  our  friend 
from  Caroline  1  See,  here  he  is.  Good  day,  sir  1 " 

He  who  now  approaches  has  the  same  calm,  benignant 
expression  as  the  rest — an  expression,  indeed,  which  seems 
to  have  dwelt  always  on  those  serene  noble  faces  of  that 
period,  so  full  of  stirring  events  and  strong  natures.  The  face 
was  not  unlike  that  which  we  fancy  Joseph  Addison's  must 
have  been — a  quiet,  serene  smile,  full  of  courtesy  and  sweet 
ness,  illuminated  it,  attracting  people  of  all  ages  and  condi 
tions.  When  he  speaks,  it  is  in  the  vox  argentea  of  Cicero, 
a  gentle  stream  of  sound,  rippling  in  the  sunlight. 

"  What  from  Caroline,  pray  ?  "  asks  the  '  dismounted 
Colonel,'  pressing  the  hand  held  out  to  him  with  great 
warmth.  "  Do  the  clergy  speak  of  bringing  suit  to  recover 
damages  at  once,  for  the  acts  of  '55  and  '58  ?  " 

"  i  believe  not,"  the  gentleman  from  Caroline  replies, 
courteously,  in  his  soft  voice;  "  but  have  you  not  heard  the 
news  from  Hanover  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  pray  let  us  hear — " 

"  In  the  action  brought  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Maury 
against  the  collector,  a  young  man  of  that  con  nty  has  pro 
cured  a  triumphant  verdict  for  the  collector." 

"  For  the  collector  ?  " 

"  Yes!" 

"  Against  the  clergy  ?  '* 


264  GOVERNOR  FAUQCIER'S  BALI. 

«  Yes ! » 

"  You  said  a  triumphant  verdict  ?  " 

"  One  penny  damages." 

An  expression  of  extreme  delight  diffuses  itself  over  th« 
face  of  the  gentleman  receiving  this  reply. 

"  And  what  is  the  name  of  the  young  man  who  has 
worked  this  wonder  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Patrick  Henry." 

"  I  have  no  acquaintance  with  him." 

"  I  think  you  will  have,  however,  sir.  His  speech  is 
said  to  have  been  something  wonderful ;  the  people  carried 
him  on  their  shoulders,  the  parsons  fled  from  the  bench — I 
found  the  county,  as  I  passed  through,  completely  crazy 
with  delight.  But  what  is  that  small  volume,  peeping  from 
your  pocket,  sir  ?  "  adds  the  speaker,  with  a  smile  at  the 
abstracted  and  delighted  expression  of  his  interlocutor. 

"  An  Anacreon,  from  Glasgow,  sir,"  says  the  other,  al 
most  forgetting  his  delight  at  the  issue  of  the  parsons'  cause, 
as  he  takes  the  book  from  his  pocket  and  opens  it  It  is  a 
small  thin  volume,  with  an  embossed  back,  covered  with 
odd  gilt  figures  ;  and  the  Greek  type  is  of  great  size,  and 
very  black  and  heavy. 

"  Greek  ? "  says  the  gentleman  from  Caroline,  smiling 
serenely.  "  Ah,  I  fear  it  is  Hebrew  to  me  1  I  may  say, 
however,  that  from  what  I  have  heard,  this  young  Mr.  Henry 
is  a  fair  match  for  >  former  orator  of  that  language — De 
mosthenes  1 " 

"  Well,  sir,"  says  the  Roman,  "  if  he  is  Demosthenes, 
yonder  is  our  valiant  Alexander  !  " 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Is  that  fine  face  not  familiar  ?  " 

"  Ah,  CoL  Washington  !  I  know  him  but  slightly  ;  yet, 
assuredly,  his  countenance  gives  promise  of  a  noble  nature  ; 
he  has  certainly  already  done  great  service  to  the  govern 
ment,  and  I  wonder  his  Majesty  has  not  promoted  him.  His 
promotion  will,  however,  await  further  services,  I  fancy." 

"  Ah,  gentlemen,  you  are  welcome  1  "  says  a  courteous 
voice  ;  "  Mr.  Wythe,  Colonel  Bland,  Mr.  Lee,  Mr.  Pendle- 
ton,  I  rejoice  to  see  you  all :  welcome,  welcome  !  "  And 
his  Excellency  Governor  Fauquier,  with  courtly  urbanity 
presses  the  hands  of  his  guests. 


GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL. 

"  You  will  find  card-tables  in  the  next  room,  should  you 
fancy  joining  in  the  fascinating  amusements  of  tictao  and 
spadille,"  he  adds,  blandly  smiling  as  he  passes  on. 

The  next  group  which  we  approach  is  quite  large,  and 
all  talk  at  once,  with  hearty  laughter  and  rough  frankness ; 
and  this  talk  concerns  itself  with  plantation  matters — the 
blood  of  horses,  breeds  of  cattle,  and  the  chase.  Let  us 
listen,  even  if,  in  the  uproar,  we  can  catch  nothing  very  con 
nected,  and  at  the  risk  of  finding  ourselves  puzzled  by  the 
jumble  of  questions  and  replies. 

"  The  three  field  system,  I  think,  sir,  has  the  advantage 
over  all  others  of — " 

"  Oh,  excellent,  sir  !  I  never  saw  a  finer  leaf,  and  when 
we  cut  it — " 

"  Suddenly  the  blood  rushed  over  his  frill,  and  we  found 
he  had  broken  his  collar  bone  !  " 

"  The  finest  pack,  I  think,  in  all  Prince  George — " 

"  By  George  !— " 

"  He's  a  fine  fellow,  and  has,  I  think,  cause  to  congratu 
late  himself  on  his  luck.  His  wife  is  the  loveliest  girl  I 
ever  saw,  and — " 

"  Trots  like  lightning  1 " 

"  Well,  well,  nothing  astonishes  me  1  The  world  must 
be  coming  to  an  end — " 

"  On  Monday  forenoon — " 

"  On  the  night  before — " 

"  They  say  the  races  near  Jamestown  will  be  more 
crowded  this  year  than  ever.  I  announced—" 

"  The  devil !— " 

"  Good  evening,  sir ;  I  hope  your  mare  will  be  in  good 
condition  for  the  race — " 

"  To  destruction,  sir — I  tell  you  such  a  black  act  would 
ruin  the  ministry — even  Granville — " 

"  Loves  his  pipe — " 

"  The  races—" 

"  Hedges—" 

"  Distanced — " 

"  I  know  his  pedigree ;  you  are  mistaken — by  Sir  Arohy 
dam — " 

"  The  )dds  ?  I  close  with  you.  Indeed,  I  think  J 
could  afford— " 

I?  •' 


266  GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL. 

"  Ah,  gentlemen  !  "  a  courteous  voice  interposes,  amid 
the  uproar,  "  talking  of  races  ?  Mr.  Hamilton,  Mr.  Lane, 
welcome  to  my  poor  house  !  You  will  find  card-tables  in 
the  adjoining  room."  And  his  bland  Excellency  passes  on. 

Space  fails  us  or  we  might  set  down  for  the  reader's 
amusement  some  of  the  quiet  and  pleasant  talk  of  the  well- 
to-do  factors  and  humbler  planters,  and  their  beautiful  wives 
and  daughters.  We  must  pass  on ;  but  let  us  pause  a  mo 
ment  yet,  to  hear  what  this  group  of  magnificently-dressed 
young  dames,  and  their  gay  gallants,  are  saying. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Alston,  your  compliments  surpass  any 
which  I  have  received  for  a  very  long  time,"  says  a  fasci 
nating  little  beauty,  in  a  multiplicity  of  furbelows,  and  with 
a  small  snow  storm  on  her  head, — flirting  her  fan,  all 
covered  with  Corydons  and  Chloes,  as  she  speaks ;  "  what 
verses  did  you  allude  to,  when  you  said  that '  Laura  was  the 
very  image  of  myself  ? '  I  am  dying  with  curiosity  to  know  1 " 

"  Those  written  by  our  new  poet  yonder  :  have  you  not 
heard  them  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  upon  my  word  !     But  the  author  is — " 

"  The  Earl  of  Dorset,  yonder." 

"  The  Earl  of  Dorset !  " 

"  Ah,  charming  Miss  Laura  !  permit  the  muse  to  deco 
rate  herself  with  a  coronet,  and  promenade,  in  powdered  wig 
and  ruffles,  without  questioning  her  pedigree." 

A  little  laugh  greets  these  petit  maitre  words. 

"  Well,  sir,  the  verses,"  says  Laura,  with  a  fatal  glance. 

The  gallant  bows  low,  and  draws  from  his  pocket  a 
MS.,  secured  with  blue  ribbon,  and  elegantly  written  in  the 
round,  honest-looking  characters  of  the  day. 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  says. 

And  all  the  beautiful  girls  who  have  listened  to  the 
colloquy  gather  around  the  reader,  to  drink  in  the  fascinat 
ing  rhymes  of  the  muse,  in  an  earl's  coronet  and  powder. 

"  First  comes  the  prologue,  as  I  may  say,"  the  reader 
commences ;  "  it  is  an  address  to  his  pen  : 

M  Wilt  thou,  adrent'rous  pen,  describe 
The  gay,  delightful  silken  tribe, 

That  maddens  all  our  city  ; 
Nor  dread  lest  while  you  foolish  claim 
A  near  approach  to  beauty's  flame, 

Icarus'  fate  may  hit  ye  1 " 


GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL.  267 

The  speaker  pauses,  and  a  great  fluttering  of  fans  ensues, 
with  many  admiring  comments  on  the  magnificent  simile  of 
Icarus. 

The  reader  continues,  daintily  arranging  his  snowy  frill 
"  Mark  the  fate  of  the  bard,"  he  says,  and  reads  : 

"  "With  singe'd  pinions  tumbling  down. 
The  scorn  and  laughter  of  the  town 

Thoul't  rue  thy  daring  flight. 
While  every  Miss,  with  cool  contempt, 
Affronted  by  the  bold  attempt, 

Will,  tittering,  view  thy  plight." 

"  Tittering — observe  the  expressive  phrase,"  says  the 
reader. 

They  all  cry  out  at  this. 

"  Tittering !  " 

"  Ladies  do  not  titter  1  " 

"  Really ! " 

"  Tittering ! " 

The  serene  reader  raises  his  hand,  and,  adjusting  his  wig, 


"  Mere  poetic  license,  ladies ;  merely  imagination ;  not 
fact.  True,  very  true  1  ladies  never  titter — an  abominable 
imputation.  But,  listen." 

And  he  continues : 

"Myrtillaa  Deatities  who  can  paint, 
The  well-turned  form,  the  glowing  teiut, 

May  deck  a  common  creature ; 
But  who  can  make  th*  expressive  soul, 
With  lively  sense  inform  the  whole, 
And  light  up  evwy  feature  ? " 

"  A  bad  rhyme  *  teint,'  and  a  somewhat  aristocratic  allu 
sion  to  '  common  creatures,'  "  says  the  reader. 

"  Oh,  it  is  beautiful  1 "  says  a  pretty  little  damsel,  enthu 
siastically. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  your  portrait,  my  dear  madam," 
says  the  gallant,  "  I  assure  you  that  Myrtilla  was  designed 
for  you." 

"  Oh !  "  murmurs  Myrtilla,  covering  her  face  with  her 
fan. 

The  reader  continues ; 


268         GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL. 

"See  Laura,  sprightly  nymph,  advance 
Through  nil  the  mazes  of  the  dance, 

With  light  fantastic  toe; 
See  laughter  sj  nrkle  in  her  eyes— 
At  her  approach  new  joys  arise. 

New  fires  within  us  glowf 

"Such  sweetness  in  her  look  is  seen. 
Such  brilliant  elegance  of  mien, 

So  jauntie  and  so  airy: 
Her  image  in  our  fancy  reigns, 
All  night  she  gallops  through  our  veins, 

Like  little  Mab  the  fairy  1 " 

Laura  covers  her  face  to  hide  her  delight,  in  the  midst 
of  universal  applause. 

The  reader  helps  himself  daintily  to  a  pinch  of  snuff 
from  a  golden  box,  and  continues : 

"  Shall  sprightly  Isadora  yield 
To  Laura  the  distinguished  field 

Amidst  the  vernal  throng ; 
Or  shall  Aspasia's  frolic  lays 
From  Leonella  snatch  the  bays, 

The  tribute  of  the  song  J " 

And  as  the  gallant  gentleman  reads,  he  pauses  at  "  Isa 
dora,"  "  Aspasia,"  and  "  Leonella,"  and,  raising  his  head, 
reveals  the  hidden  meaning  of  the  verse  by  gazing  at  those 
beauties,  who  utter  little  cries  of  delight,  and  go  into  rap 
tures. 

He  continues : 

"  Like  hers  I  ween,  the  blushing  rose 
On  Sylvia's  polished  cheek  that  glows ; 

And  hers  the  velvet  lip 
To  which  the  cherry  yields  its  hue, 
Its  plumpness  and  ambrosial  dew, 

Which  even  gods  might  sip  1 " 

Isadora  and  Sylvia  cover  their  faces,  and  feel  conscioui 
•f  having  made  a  host  of  enemies. 
The  reader  reads  on : 

"  What  giddy  raptures  fill  the  brain, 
When  tripping  o'er  the  verdant  plain, 

Florella  joins  the  throng, 
Her  looks  each  throbbing  pain  beguiles, 
Beneath  her  footsteps  nature  smileo, 

And  joins  the  po«t's  sons'." 


GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL.  269 

Then  there  is  a  pause. 

"  Who  is  Florella  ?  "  they  ask. 

"  Florella,  ladies,  I  regret  to  say,  is  not  present,"  the 
reader  replies,  embracing  the  brilliant  and  undulating  throng 
with  a  glance. 

"  But  who  is  it  ?  " 

"  Are  you  really  desirous  of  knowing  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.' 

"  I  have  been  told  that  curiosity  was  not  one  of  the  foi 
bles  of  the  divine  sex — " 

"  Come — come,  Mr.  Alston,"  says  Laura,  "  on  pain  of 
my  displeasure  ! " 

"  That  is  far  too  dreadful  to  endure,"  says  the  gallant, 
smoothing  his  frill  with  a  jewelled  hand,  and  bowing  low, 
"  Florella,  ladies,  is  Miss  Henrietta  Lee." 

"  Exactly  like  her — excellent,"  comes  from  all  sides. 

Some  more  verses  are  read,  and  they  are  received  with  a 
variety  of  comment. 

"  Listen  now,  to  the  last,"  says  the  engaging  reader. 

"  With  pensive  look  and  head  reclined, 
Sweet  emblem  of  the  purest  mind, 

Lo  1  where  Cordelia  sits  I 
On  Dion's  image  dwells  the  fair— 
Dion,  the  thunderbolt  of  war— 
The  prince  of  modern  wits  1 

"At  length  fatigued  with  beauty's  blaze^ 
The  feeble  muse  no  more  essays, 

Her  picture  to  complete. 
The  promised  charms  of  younger  girls, 
When  nature  the  gay  scene  unfurls, 

Some  happier  bard  shall  treat  I  " 

There  is  a  silence  for  some  moments  after  these  words — • 
the  MS.  having  passed  from  the  gallant's  hands  to  anothei 
group. 

<:  Who  is  Cordelia  ?  let  me  think,"  says  Laura,  knitting 
her  brows,  and  raising  to  her  lips  a  fairy  hand  covered  with 
diamonds,  absently. 

"  And  Dion — who  can  he  be  ?  "  says  Isodora,  twisting 
her  satin  sleeve  between  her  fingers  abstractedly. 

"  It  is  ! — no,  it  is  not  1  " 

"  I  know,  now  ! — but  that  don't  suit  1 " 

"  Permit  me  to  end  your  perplexity,  ladies,"  says  the 


270  GOVERNOR  FAUQUtER  S  BALL. 

oracle,  "  Cordelia,  is  Miss  Clare  Lee,  and  Dion,  is  Mr.  Champ 
Effingham ! » 

A  general  exclamation  of  surprise,  from  all  the  ladies. 
They  say : 

"  It  suits  him,  possibly,  but — " 

"  He  may  be  the  prince  of  wits ;  still  it  does  not  fol 
low—" 

"  Certainly  not,  that—" 

"  Clare  is  not  such  a  little  saint !  " 

"  Let  me  defend  her,"  says  a  gentleman,  smiling ;  "  I  grant 
you  that  'tis  extravagant  to  call  Mr.  Effingham  a  thun 
derbolt—" 

"  Laughable." 

"  Amusing,"  say  the  gentlemen. 

"  Or  the  prince  of  modern  wits,"  continues  the  counsel 
for  the  defence. 

"  Preposterous ! " 

"  Unjust  1 "  they  add. 

"  But  I  must  be  permitted  to  say,"  goes  on  the  chivalrio 
defender  of  the  absent,  "  that  Miss  Clare  Lee  fully  deserves 
her  character  : — the  comparison  of  that  lovely  girl,  ladies,  to 
Cordelia, — Cordelia,  the  sweetest  of  all  Shakespeare's  charac 
ters — seems  to  me  nothing  more  than  justice." 

The  gentlemen  greet  this  with  enthusiastic  applause,  for 
our  little,  long-lost  sight  of — heroine,  had  subdued  all  hearts. 

"  As  regards  Mr.  Effingham,"  adds  Clare's  knight,  "  I 
shall  be  pardoned  for  not  saying  any  thing,  since  he  is  not 
present." 

"  Then  I  will  say  something "  here  interposes  a  small 
gentleman,  with  a  waistcoat  reaching  to  his  knees,  and  pro 
fusely  laced,  like  all  the  rest  of  his  clothes — indeed,  the 
richness  of  his  costume  was  distressing — "  but  I  will  say,  sir, 
that  Mr.  Effingham's  treatment  of  that  divine  creature,  Miss 
Clare  Lee,  is  shameful." 

"  How  ? "  ask  the  ladies,  agitating  their  fans,  and 
scenting  a  delicious  bit  of  scandal. 

"  Why,"  says  the  gentleman  in  the  long  waistcoat,  squar 
ing  himself,  so  to  speak,  and  greatly  delighted  at  the  sudden 
accession  to  his  importance — the  general  opinion  being  that 
he  was  somewhat  insignificant,  "  why,  ladies,  he  has  been 
running  afHr  that  little  jade,  Miss  Hallam  1  " 


FAUQUIER'S  BALL.  271 

u  Miss  Hallam  !  "  cry  the  ladies,  in  virtuous  ignorance 
though  nothing  was  more  notorious  than  the  goings-on  of 
our  friend  Mr.  Effingham,  "  Miss  Hallam  !  " 

"  Precisely,  ladies." 

"  The  actress  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  A  playing  girl !  "  exclaims  a  lady,  of  say  thirty,  and 
covering  her  face  as  she  spoke. 

"  Falling  in  love  with  her  !  " 

"  Possible  ?  " 

"  Haven't  you  heard  all  about  it  ?  " 

This  home  question  causes  a  flutter  and  a  silence. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  then,"  continues  the  gentleman  in  the  long 
waistcoat,  "  I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  doings  of  '  Dion,  the 
thunderbolt  of  war,  and  prince  of  modern  wits.'  He,  the 
thunderbolt  of  war  ? — preposterous  !  He,  the  prince  cf 
wits  ? — ludicrous  !  He  may  be  the  king  of  coxcombs,  the 
coryphaeus  of  dandies — but  that  is  all." 

The  gentlemen  standing  around  listen  to  these  words, 
with  some  amusement  and  more  disgust.  It  is  plain  that 
some  secret  spite  actuates  the  gentleman  in  the  long  waist 
coat. 

"  Well,  let  us  hear  Mr.  Effingham's  crimes,"  says  Laura, 

"  By  all  means,"  adds  Isadora. 

"  Of  course,"  says  Myrtilla. 

"  He  has  been  making  himself  ridiculous  about  that  ac 
tress,"  continues  the  chronicler,  "  and  I  have  even  heard, 
designs  to  marry  her." 

The  ladies  make  a  movement,  to  express  surprise  and 
indignation,  but  after  a  moment's  reflection,  suppress  this 
somewhat  ambiguous  exhibition  of  their  feelings. 

"  He's  been  at  the  '  Raleigh  Tavern,'  making  love  to 
her  for  a  mouth,"  continues  the  narrator. 

"  At  the  tavern  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  town  here." 

"  Did  any  one  ever !  "  says  the  lady  of  unceitain  age. 

"  Never !  never  1 "  chime  in  the  virtuous  little  damsels, 
shaking  their  heads  solemnly. 

"  He  has  left  his  family,"  the  gentleman  in  the  long 
waistcoat  goes  on,  indignantly,  "  and  they  are  dying  of 
grief" 


279  GOVERNOR    FAUQ  JIER'S   BALL. 

"Oh,  can  it  be!" 

"  Certainly,  madam.    Why  are  they  not  her»  to-night  ?  M 

"  Very  true." 

"  Why  is  Clare  Lee,  the  victim  of  his  insincerity,  away, 
pray  tell  me  I  They  are  not  here — they  are  not  coming, 
madam." 

At  the  same  moment,  the  usher  announces  the  squire, 
Miss  Alethea,  and  Miss  Clare  Lee — Master  Willie  and 
Kate  being  too  small  to  be  seen,  which  the  squire  had  warned 
them  of.  The  squire  is  as  bluff  as  ever,  and  makes  his  salu 
tation  to  his  Excellency  with  great  cordiality — Clare  is  pale 
and  absent,  presenting  thus  a  singular  contrast  to  Henrietta, 
who  enters  a  moment  afterwards,  brilliant,  imposing,  and 
smiling,  like  a  queen  receiving  the  homage  of  the  nobility 
around  her  throne.  She  sweeps  on,  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
honest  Jack  Hamilton,  and  the  party  are  swallowed  in  the 
crowd. 

Let  us  return  to  the  group,  whose  conversation  the  new 
arrivals  had  interrupted. 

"  Well,  I  was  mistaken,"  says  the  gentleman  in  the  long 
waistcoat,  "  but  any  one  may  see  that  Clare  Lee  is  dying 
slowly ! " 

At  which  affecting  observation,  the  young  ladies  sigh  and 
shake  their  heads. 

"  And  just  think  what  that  man  has  thrown  this  divine 
creature  away  for,"  continues  the  censor  inorum, "  for  a  com 
mon  actress  ! — an  ordinary  playing  girl — tolerably  pretty 
she  may  be,  but  vastly  overrated — a  mere  thing  of  stage 
paint  and  pearl  powder,  strutting  through  her  parts  and  rant 
ing  like  an  Amazon  1 " 

"  I  think  her  quite  pretty,"  says  Laura,  "  but  it  is  too 
bad." 

"  Dreadful  1 » 

"  Awful  1 » 

"  Horrible  1 " 

"  Shocking  1 " 

These  are  some  of  the  comments  on  Mr.  Effingham'a 
conduct,  from  the  elegant  little  dames. 

"  He  is  ashamed  to  show  himself  any  where,"  continues 
the  gentleman  in  the  long  waistcoat,  "  and  only  yesterday 
met  me  on  the  street,  and  in  passing,  turned  away  his  head, 


GOVERNOR  FAUQUIER'S  BALL.  273 

plainly  afraid  that  I  would  not  speak  in  return,  had  Ke  ad 
dressed  me ! " 

At  which  words  the  gentlemen  are  observed  to  smile — 
knowing  as  they  do,  something  of  Mr.  Champ  Effingham'a 
personal  character  and  habits. 

"  He  actually  was  afraid  to  look  at  me,"  says  the  censor, 
"  and  I  am  told  keeps  his  room  all  day,  or  passes  his  time 
in  the  society  of  that  Circe,  yes,  that  siren  who  is  only  too 
fond  of  him,  I  am  afraid — and  I  predict  will  make  him  marry 
her  at  last." 

The  ladies  sigh,  and  agitate  their  fans  with  diamond- 
sparkling  hands.  They  feel  themselves  very  far  above  this 
shameless  creature  attempting  to  catch — as  we  now  say — 
Mr.  Emngham  :  they  pity  her,  for  such  a  thing  never  has 
occurred  to  them — no  gentleman  has  ever  been  attractive 
enough  for  them  to  have  designs  upon  his  heart.  And  so 
they  pity  and  despise  Beatrice,  for  wishing  to  run  away  with 
her  admirer. 

"  He  is  heartily  ashamed  of  his  infatuation,  and  I  saw 
him  last  night  in  the  theatre,  positively  afraid  to  look  at  the 
audience — but  staring  all  the  time  at  her,"  continues  the 
small  gentleman. 

"  But  that  is  easy  to  understand,  as  he  is  in  love,"  says 
Myrtilla,  with  a  strong  inclination  to  take  the  part  of  the 
reprobate  against  his  enemy. 

"  No,  no,  madam,"  exclaims  the  censor,  "  he  was  really 
ashamed  to  look  at  the  people,  and  took  not  the  least  notice 
of  their  frowns :  he  does  not  visit  any  where  : — he  knows  he 
would  not  be  received — he  is  afraid  to  show  his  face." 

It  seemed  that  the  gentleman  in  the  long  waistcoat  was 
doomed  to  have  all  his  prophecies  falsified ;  for  at  that  mo 
ment,  the  usher  announced  in  a  loud  voice,  which  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  whole  company : 

"  Mr.  Emngham  and  Miss  Hallam  ! ' 


274    BOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM  AND  BEATRICE  DANCED 


CHAPTER    XL  IX. 

HOW  MK.  EFFING1IAM  AND  BEATRICE  DANCED  A  MINUET  AT  TH1 
BALL. 

MR.  EFFINGHAM  entered  under  the  full  light  of  the  central 
chandelier,  with  Beatrice  on  his  arm.  He  carried  his  head 
proudly  erect,  his  eye  was  clear  and  steady,  his  lip  calm  and 
only  slightly  sarcastic : — his  whole  carriage  displayed  per 
fect  and  unaffected  self-possession.  The  thousand  eyes  bent 
on  him  vainly  sought  in  his  eyes,  or  lips,  any  thing  going  to 
show  that  he  felt  conscious  of  the  dreadful,  the  awful  social 
enormity,  which  he  was  committing 

Mr.  Effingham  was  dressed  with  extraordinary  richness. 
He  was  always  elegant  in  his  costume,  on  that  night  he  was 
splendid.  His  coat  of  rich  cut  velvet,  was  covered  with 
embroidery,  and  sparkled  with  a  myriad  of  chased  gold  but 
tons;  his  lace  ruffles  at  breast  and  wrist  were  point-de-venise, 
his  fingers  were  brilliant  with  rings,  and  his  powdered  hair 
waved  from  his  clear  pale  temples  like  a  stream  of  silver 
dust.  He  looked  like  a  courtier  of  the  days  of  Louis  XIV., 
dressed  for  a  royal  reception. 

And  how  did  Beatrice  compare  with  this  brilliant  star 
of  fashion — this  thunderbolt  of  war,  and  prince  of  modern 
wits,  as  the  muse  in  powdered  hair  and  ruffles  had  charac 
terized  him.  Poor  Beatrice  was  quite  eclipsed  by  her  cava 
lier.  Her  simple,  unassuming  dress,  of  pearl  color,  looped 
back  with  plain  ribbon,  and  without  a  single  flower,  or  any 
ornament  whatever,  looked  strangely  out  of  place,  thrown  in 
contrast  with  the  brilliant  silks,  and  velvets,  and  gold  but 
tons,  and  diamonds  of  her  companion :  her  modest,  tender 
face,  and  drooping  head,  with  its  unpretending  coiffure, 
looked  quite  insignificant  beside  the  bold,  defiant  counte 
nance  of  Mr.  Effingham,  which  returned  look  for  look,  and 
gaze  for  gaze,  with  an  insulting  nonchalance  and  easy  hau 
teur.  We  know  how  reluctantly  Beatrice  had  come  thither 
— rather  how  bitter  a  trial  it  was  to  her,  and  we  may  under 
stand  why  she  looked  pale  and  troubled,  and — spite  of  the 
fact  that  she  had  just  encountered  the  gaze  of  a  curious  and 
laughing  audience,  without  any  emotion — now  felt  her  spirit 


4   MINUE1    AT   THE   BALU  275 

die  within  her.  It  was  not  because  she  shrunk  from  com 
ment,  half  so  much,  as  from  the  fact  that  each  moment  she 
expected  to  see  opposite  to  her  the  cold,  pale  face,  and  sick, 
reproachful  eyes  of  Clare  Lee — of  Clare,  who  had  thrown 
aside  the  prejudices  of  class,  even  forgot  the  jealousy  of  a 
wronged  and  wretched  rival,  to  press  in  her  arma  the  riva* 
who  had  made  all  her  woe,  and  that  rival  a  common  actresa 
It  was  the  dread  of  her  eye  which  made  poor  Beatrice  trem 
ble — this  alone  made  her  lip  quiver  and  her  brow  droop. 

His  excellency  Governor  Fauquier  came  forward  to  wel 
come  his  guests,  but  started  at  the  sight  of  Beatrice,  and 
almost  uttered  an  exclamation.  For  a  moment  he  was  stag 
gered,  and  said  nothing.  This  soon  passed,  however,  and 
by  the  time  Mr.  Effingham  had  accomplished  his  easy  bow, 
the  governor  was  himself  again,  and  like  the  elegant  gentle 
man  he  was,  made  a  low  inclination  before  Beatrice.  Then 
he  made  a  pleasant  allusion  to  the  weather — that  mucb 
abused  subject,  which  has  extricated  so  many  perishing  con 
versations — and  so,  smiling  agreeably,  passed  on. 

Mr.  Effingham  advanced  through  the  opening,  on  each 
side  of  which  extended  a  row  of  brilliant  forms,  sparkling 
with  lace  and  jewels,  without  any  apparent  consciousness 
that  he  and  his  companion  were  the  observed  of  all  observers 
— without  being  conscious,  one  would  have  said,  of  those 
murmured  comments  which  greeted,  on  every  side,  the 
strange  and  novel  scene.  His  manner  to  Beatrice,  as  he 
bent  down  to  speak  to  her,  was  full  of  respectful  and  chi- 
valric  feeling ;  his  eye  was  soft,  his  lip  smiling ;  the  highest 
lady  of  the  land  might  well  have  felt  an  emotion  of  pleasure 
in  so  elegant  and  noble  an  exhibition  of  regard.  And  this 
was  not  affected  by  Mr.  Effinghara.  By  no  means.  We 
have  failed  to  convey  a  truthful  impression  of  this  young 
gentleman's  character,  if  the  reader  has  not,  before  this 
time,  perceived  that,  with  all  his  woful  faults  and  failings, 
Mr.  Champ  Effingham  had  much  in  his  character  of  the 
bold  gentleman — the  ancient  knight.  With  those  thousand 
satirical  or  scornful  eyes  bent  on  her,  Beatrice  was  dearer  to 
him  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  Those  elegant  ladies 
and  gallant  gentlemen  were  saying,  with  disdain,  "  a  common 
actress !  "  Well,  he  would  espouse  the  cause  of  that  girl 
they  scorned  against  them  all,  and  treat  her  like  a  queen  1 


276    HOW  MR.  EFFINGHAM  AND  BEATRICE  DANCED 

Never  had  she  had  more  complete  possession  of  his  heart- 
never  had  his  heart  thrilled  so  deliciously  at  the  contact  of 
her  hand,  resting  upon  his  arm. 

As  we  have  said,  all  drew  back  from  the  new  comers, 
and  they  entered  through  an  open  space,  like  a  king  leading 
in  his  queen.  Mr.  Effinghain  looked  round,  with  a  cool  and 
easy  smile,  and  led  the  young  girl  to  a  seat,  near  some 
elderly  dowagers,  in  turbans  and  diamonds,  who  had  en 
throned  themselves  in  state,  to  watch  their  daughters,  and 
Bee  that  those  inexperienced  creatures  did  not  give  too  much 
encouragement  to  ineligible  personages.  As  Beatrice  sank 
into  one  of  the  red  damask  chairs,  the  surrounding  chairs 
suddenly  retreated  on  their  rollers,  and  the  turbans  agitated 
themselves  indignantly.  Mr.  Effingham  smiled,  with  his 
easy,  mocking  expression,  and  observing  that  one  of  the 
diamond-decorated  dowagers  had  dropped  her  fan,  picked  it 
up,  and  presented  it  to  her,  with  a  bow.  The  indignant  lady 
turned  away  her  head,  with  a  frown. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  politely,  "  I  was  mistaken." 

And  fanning  himself  for  a  moment  negligently,  he  placed 
the  richly  feathered  instrument  in  the  hand  of  Beatrice. 

"  My  fan,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  owner,  suddenly 
flushing  with  indignant  fire. 

"  Your  fan,  madam  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Effingham,  with  polite 
surprise. 

"  Yes,  sir  1  you  picked  it  up,  sir !  " 

"  A  thousand  pardons  !  "  returned  the  young  gentleman, 
with  a  courteous  smile  ;  "  did  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  1  that  is  it,  sir  !     In  the  hands  of  that — " 

"  Oh,  I  understand,"  returned  Mr.  Effingham ;  and  with 
a  low  inclination  to  Beatrice,  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand, 
"  Will  you  permit  me  ?  " 

The  fan  was  restored  by  the  young  girl,  just  as  she  had 
taken  it — unconsciously  ;  and  the  dowager  received  it  with 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  as  if  it  had  been  contaminated.  At 
the  same  moment,  the  band  struck  up  a  minuet,  and  two 
couples  began  to  dance. 

"  How  graceful  the  costume  of  our  young  ladies  is  be 
coming,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  bending  down  courteously  to 
Beatrice,  on  the  back  of  whose  chair  he  leaned. 

Beatrice  murmured,  "  Yes." 


A    MINUET    AT   THE   BALu.  Ail 

"  Much  prettier,  I  think,  than  that  of  fifty  years  ago," 
continued  Mr.  Effingham,  smiling,  and  glancing  respectfully 
at  the  elderly  and  indignant  ladies,  who  were  listening. 

The  fans  waved  furiously. 

"  There  is  a  fitness  about  the  fresh,  new  style,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  and  it  suits  youth.  I  do  not  quarrel,  however, 
with  the  former  costume — turbans,  and  all  that — it  is  also 
suitable — for  elderly  ladies." 

And  Mr.  Effingham,  smiling  meekly,  seemed  perfectly 
unconscious  of  the  storm  muttering  around  him.  As  he 
spoke,  honest  Jack  Hamilton,  who  had  left  the  Riverhead 
and  Effingham  party  in  the  other  room,  approached,  and 
with  a  movement  of  his  head,  asked  to  be  presented  to 
Beatrice. 

,  The  young  girl  could  hardly  return  his  bow ;  she  felt 
such  anxiety,  that  the  power  of  movement  seemed  almost 
gone  from  her. 

"  Mr.  Hamilton  is  one  of  my  best  friends,  Miss  Hal- 
lam,"  said  the  young  man,  who  had  rewarded  honest  Jack 
with  a  bright  smile  ;  "  but  I  shall  claim  your  hand  for  tho 
first  minuet." 

"  Oh  no,"  murmured  Beatrice ;  "  I  do  not  wish  to  dance. 
Oh,  sir !  do  not  ask  me  to  dance  !  " 

And  she  stopped,  overcome  by  her  emotion. 

"  Oh,  I  insist  upon  it !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  smiling ; 
"  it  seems  to  me  that  that  minuet  there  is  abominably  per 
formed,  and  the  music  is  shockingly  fast." 

"  Hallo,  Brother  Champ !  "  here  said  a  voice,  at  his 
elbow ;  "  ain't  I  glad  to  see  you !  " 

And  turning  round,  Mr.  Effingham  found  himself  in  front 
of  Master  Will ;  but  Master  Will  was  so  metamorphosed 
that  he  scarcely  recognized  him.  Willie  had  carried  out  his 
threat  to  Kate,  and  had  donned  a  complete  cavalier's  cos 
tume.  His  hair  was  powdered,  and  gallantly  tied  into  a 
queue  behind;  his  coat  was  embroidered  and  heavy  cuffed ; 
his  waistcoat  nearly  down  to  his  knees ;  his  frill  irreproach 
able  ;  his  stockings  of  most  approved  scarlet  iilk ;  and  his 
shoes  rosetted  with  ribbon,  and  with  such  high  red  heels, 
that  the  young  gentleman  walked  as  it  were  on  tiptoe.  Al 
together,  with  his  long  queue,  and  quick-moving  little  feet, 
Will  resembled  a  large  rat,  decked  out  with  ribbons,  and 


278          HOW   MK.    EFFINGHAM   AND   BEATRICE    DANSED 

—conscious  of  his  frill  and  the  good  society  he  moved  in,— • 
on  his  best  behavior. 

"  I'm  delighted  to  see  you,"  added  Will,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

Mr.  Effingham  shook  hands. 

"  'Say,"  whispered  Will,  "  is  that  the  girl  you're  in  love 
with?" 

Will  started  back  before  the  tremendous  frown  of  his 
brother ;  for  Beatrice  heard  the  words,  and  turned  away  her 
head.  Mr.  Effingham  raised  his  finger,  and  was  about  to 
say  something  that  would  have  annihilated  the  youthful 
cavalier,  when  suddenly  he  felt  a  soft,  warm,  little  hand  take 
his  own,  and  turning  round,  he  saw  little  Kate's  bright, 
smiling  face. 

"  Oh  1  I  wanted  to  come  before,  but  couldn't,"  she  said, 
leaning  her  bright  little  head  against  his  side ;  "  I'm  so  glad 
to  see  you." 

And  she  pressed  the  hand  she  held  harder. 

Mr.  Effingham's  cynical  smile  became  soft,  his  head 
drooped  toward  the  child ;  but  suddenly  Kate  recognized 
Beatrice,  who  had  been  concealed  from  her  by  Jack  Hamil 
ton,  motionless,  coughing,  trying  to  converse  ; — there  was 
the  lady  of  the  tavern — the  actress — the  person  who  had 
caused  them  so  much  grief.  She  drew  back  sorrowfully, 
and  her  little  face  was  covered  with  a  shadow.  Mr.  Effing 
ham  saw  it — divined  the  reason — and  his  face  too  was  over 
shadowed.  He  was  about  to  speak,  when — the  first  dance 
having  terminated  some  moments  before — a  second  minuet 
was  commenced  by  the  band. 

"  Come  !  "  said  he  to  Beatrice ;  and  taking  her  hand,  he 
raised  her,  and  led  her  forward. 

"  Not  so  fast,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand,  to 
the  musicians ;  "  I  cannot  dance  a  minuet  to  a  gavotte  tune." 

And  he  entered  into  the  broad,  open  space  with  Beatrice 
the  mark  of  a  thousand  eyes. 

The  group  which  we  have  paid  some  attention  to  already 
— that  group  which  had  expressed  such  delight  at  the  verses 
of  the  accomplished  (colonial)  Earl  of  Dorset,  and  who  had 
uttered  such  a  variety  of  comment  on  Dion,  Cordelia,  and 
Beatrice— the  group  of  which  Myrtilla,  Isadora,  and  th« 


A    MlNUfiT   AT   THE    BALL.  £79 

Long  waistcoat,  were  the  shining  stars — now  gazed  in  horror 
at  the  presumption  and  effrontery  of  Mr.  Effingham. 

"Just  look!  "said  Sylvia;  "he  is  positively  going  to 
dance  the  second  minuet !  " 

"  With  that  actress  1  "  said  Isadora. 

"  The  playing  girl !  "  echoed  Leonella,  horrified. 

"  While  we  must  wait  1  "  added  Myrtilla,  with  som« 
show  of  reason. 

"  It  is  presumptuous  !  " 

"  It  is  shocking  !  " 

"  It  is  insulting  !  " 

"  It  is  outrageous  !  " 

"  I  will  not  stand  it !  "  here  interposed  the  gentleman  in 
the  long  waistcoat,  boiling  with  indignation. 

"  Just  look  !  "  said  Sylvia  ;  "  did  anybody  ever  see  such 
ridiculous  respect  and  ceremony  in  a  gentleman  before  ?  " 

"  You  would  think  that  she  was  a  queen,  and  he  a  sub 
ject  ! " 

"  What  a  bow  !  " 

"  See  how  he  takes  her  hand,  bending  to  her  waist  1 " 

"  Ridiculous !  " 

"  But  he  is  very  graceful,"  hazarded  Myrtilla,  who,  aa 
we  know,  defended  faintly  Mr.  Effingham's  character,  when 
it  had  been  attacked  by  the  censor. 

"  Well,  suppose  he  does  bow  elegantly,"  said  Isadora, 
spitefully,  envying  Beatrice  her  cavalier. 

"  True  :  we  do  not  wish  to  have  him  for  a  partner,"  said 
Myrtilla,  who  was  something  of  a  wit. 

"  There,  look  at  her  1 " 

"  Theatrical  1 " 

«  Affected  1  " 

"  Stiff! " 

"  Frightened  1 " 

"  She  looks  as  if  she  was  going  to  cry." 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  said  Myrtilla ;  "  I  think  she  does  not 
want  to  dance." 

"Does  not  want  to?" 

«  Pshaw  1 " 

"  She  is  too  artful  for  that  1 " 

"  But  look !  her  eyes  are  moist,  as  she  curtseys,  and  they 
seem  to  beseech  him  for  something,"  said  Myrtilla. 


280          HOW   MR.    EFFINGRAM   A3ID   BEATRi.B   DANCED 

"  What  odious  artfulness  ! "  cried  Sylvia',  "  she  pretend* 
to  look  as  if  she  was  not  dying  for  joy  at  being  the  partnei 
of  the  fascinating  Mr.  Effingham." 

"  I  suppose  she  would  not  ally  herself  with  his  family ; 
they  are  too  low,"  said  Isadora,  spitefully  j  "  may  be  she  has 
refused  his  hand." 

"  Quite  probable  !  " 

"  Oh,  of  course  !  " 

"Doubtless!" 

And  the  pretty  little  damsels  curled  their  handsome 
little  lips  ironically. 

'  She  is  an  odious-looking  creature,"  said  Leonella ;  "  did 
any  one  ever  see  such  evidences  of  low  birth  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong !  "  cried  Myrtilla,  too 
generous  to  keep  silent ;  "  I  think  she  is  very  sweet." 

"  Well,  she  is  not  so  bad,  but — " 

"  Tolerable,  but—" 

"  A  pretty  arm,  but — " 

"  Fine  eyes,  still — " 

"  Graceful,  yet—" 

"  I  think  she  is  an  odious,  artful,  designing  creature,  but 
not  at  all  too  bad  for  her  partner,"  here  interposed  the  gen 
tleman  in  the  long  waistcoat ;  and  so  the  colloquy  went  on. 

Almost  every  group  in  the  room  was  uttering  something 
similar  to  that  which  we  have  just  listened  to.  The  en 
trance  of  Mr.  Effingham  into  the  open  space,  to  dance  the 
second  minuet  of  the  evening,  had  caused  an  awful  sensa 
tion  As  he  glided  through  the  stately  dance  to  the  slow 
rolling  music,  bowing  profoundly,  with  his  tender,  lordly 
smile,  touching  the  young  girl's  hand  with  chivalric  respect, 
pressing  his  cocked  hat  to  his  heart  at  each  inclination  of 
his  handsome  and  brilliant  head,  all  eyes  had  been  bent 
upon  him,  all  tongues  busy  with  him.  And  these  eyes  and 
tongues  had  taken  equal  note  of  Beatrice.  The  young  girl 
moved  through  the  old  stately  dance  with  that  exquisite 
grace  and  ease  with  which  she  performed  every  evolution, 
and  her  tender,  agitated  face,  as  we  have  seen,  tempered  the 
wrath  of  many  an  indignant  damsel.  After  the  first  burst 
of  surprise  and  anger,  the  gentlemen,  too,  began  to  take  tho 
part — as  Virginia  gentlemen  always  have  done,  and  always 
will  do — of  the  louely  girl  environed  by  so  manv  hostile 


A   MINUET   AT  THE    BALL.  281 

eyes  and  slighting  comments.  They  forgot  the  preposses 
sions  of  rank,  the  prejudices  of  class — no  longer  remem 
bered  that  the  young  actress  occupied  upon  the  floor  a  posi 
tion  to  which  she  was  not  entitled ; — they  only  saw  a  woman 
who  had  all  the  rest  against  her ;  and  their  sympathy  was 
nearly  powerful  enough  to  make  them  lose  sight  of  Mr. 
Effingham's  defiance. 

A  murmur  rose  as  the  music  stopped,  and  he  led  her  to 
a  seat;  and  then  a  species  of  undulation  in  the  crowd,  near 
the  entrance  into  the  next  room,  attracted  attention.  Mr. 
Effingham  had  his  back  turned,  however,  and  did  not  ob 
serve  this  incident.  He  was  talking  to  Beatrice  in  a  low 
tone. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  with  his  calm,  nonchalant  voice — 
"  you  see,  Beatrice,  that  this  superb  society,  which  you 
fancied  you  would  find  yourself  so  much  out  of  place  in,  is 
not  so  very  extraordinary  after  all.  I  think  that  I  hazard 
nothing  in  saying  that  the  second  minuet  was  better  than 
the  first ;  you  are,  indeed,  far  more  beautiful  than  that  little 
dame,  whose  ancestors,  I  believe,  came  over  with  the  con 
queror — Captain  Smith." 

And  his  cynical  smile  grew  soft,  as  he  gazed  on  the  ten 
der,  anxious  face. 

"  It  was  not  so  dreadful  an  ordeal,"  he  added,  "  though 
I  must  say  we  were  the  subject  of  much  curiosity.  I  ob 
served  a  group,  criticising  me,  which  pleased  me.  There 
was  a  fiery  young  gentleman  in  a  long  waistcoat,  whom  I  of 
fended  by  not  returning  his  bow  some  months  since — and  I 
believe  he  was  the  orator  of  the  occasion." 

With  which  words,  Mr.  Efiingham's  lip  curled. 

"  See !  the  very  same  group — every  body,  in  fact,  is  gazing 
at  us.  Let  them  !  you  are  lovelier  than  them  all." 

And  Mr.  Effingham  raised  his  head  proudly  and  looked 
around  like  an  emperor.  But  Beatrice  felt  her  heart  die  within 
her :  that  minuet  had  exhausted  her  strength  ;  each  moment 
she  expected  to  see  the  pale  cold  face  of  Clare  looking  at  her. 
Mr.  Effingham  observed  how  faint  she  was,  and  leaning  over 
took  a  smelling-bottle  from  the  hand  of  the  old  dowager,  who 
had  dropped  the  fan — bowing  and  smiling. 

He  presented  it  to  Beatrice,  but  she  put  it  away  with 
the  back  of  her  hand  :  whereupon  Mr.  Effiiigham,  with  a 
eecond  bow,  restored  it  to  the  dowager,  who,  aghast  at  hia 


282      HOW  MR.  B.  AND  BEATRICE  DANCED,  ETC. 

impudence,  beaten  by  his  superior  coolness,  and  overwhelmed 
with  rage,  took  it  without  knowing  what  she  did.  Mr. 
Effingham  thereupon  turned,  smiling,  to  Beatrice  again : 

"  There  seems  to  be  something  going  on  yonder,"  he  said, 
leaning  on  her  chair,  and  directing  the  young  girl's  attention 
to  the  flashing  waves  of  the  crowd,  which  moved  to  and  fro 
like  foaming  billows,  in  the  light  of  the  brilliant  chandeliers. 
Beatrice  felt  an  indefinable  and  vague  fear  take  possession 
of  her  heart  At  the  same  moment,  Master  Willie  came 
pushing  and  elbowing  through  the  crowd. 

"  Cousin  Clare  is  sick  1 "  he  said,  "  you'd  better  go  and 
see  her,  brother  Champ.  She  liked  to  fainted  just  now  1 " 

Beatrice  understood  all. 

"  Oh,  sir  !  let  me  go  1 "  she  cried,  "  go  out  with  me  1  I 
shall  die  here  ! — oh,  I  cannot — that  dance  nearly  killed  me 
— and  now  I — Oh,  sir,  have  pity,  give  me  your  arm  1  " 

And  rising  with  a  hurried  movement,  she  placed  her 
hand  on  Mr.  Effingham's  arm.  That  gentleman  smiled  bit 
terly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  tragedy  after  the  comedy  I 
I  understand  this  fainting." 

"  Oh,  sir,  have  pity — I  must  go  1  "  cried  Beatrice,  "  I 
will  go  alone  ! " 

Mr.  Effingham  held  her  back,  and  hesitated.  At  last 
he  said : 

"  Well,  madam — as  you  please — I  have  had  a  pleasant 
minuet — I  will  go." 

And  with  the  same  cold,  defiant  ease,  he  led  the  young 
girl  across  the  room,  and  issued  forth  into  the  open  air. 

Without  speaking  they  traversed  the  walk,  with  its  lin 
dens  and  variegated  lanterns,  passed  through  the  crowd  of 
grooms  and  coachmen,  who  made  way  respectfully,  and  en 
tered  the  carriage  which  had  brought  them.  In  ten  minutes 
it  stopped  at  the  Raleigh,  and  Mr.  Effingham,  with  a  strange 
throbbing  of  the  heart,  handed  the  young  girl  out.  At  that 
moment  ne  loved  her  so  madly,  so  defiantly,  that  he  would 
have  given  the  universe  to  clasp  her  io  his  bosom. 

He  knew  how  such  a  proceeding  would  be  received,  how 
ever,  and  led  her  in  silence  to  her  room,  where  Mr.  Manager 
Hallam  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  toasting  his  enormous  feet. 

Then  with  a  bow  he  closed  the  door?  and  returned  to  th« 
governor's  palace. 


MR.  EFFINGHAM  RETURNS  TO  THE  BALL. 


CHAPTER    L. 

ICE.  EFFINGHAM  EETUEN8  TO  THE  BALL  AND  DISCOURSES  ON  THE 
SUBJECT  OF  WAISTCOATS. 

MR.  EFFINGHAM  made  his  re-entrance  into  the  ball-room, 
with  the  same  disdainful  calmness  which  had  characterized 
him  at  first.  If  as  many  eyes  were  not  turned  toward  him, 
that  was  because  he  was  no  longer  accompanied  by  the  young 
actress — was  a  single  cavalier. 

Near  the  door  he  encountered  that  group,  which  we  have 
twice  listened  to  ;  and  he  approached  with  his  satirical  and 
careless  smile. 

"  Ah,  really,  "  he  said,  to  Sylvia,  "  I  am  charmed  to  see 
you !  Why,  how  adorably  you  are  looking  1 " 

And  turning  round  before  Miss  Sylvia  could  reply,  he 
added  to  Leonella, 

"  Your  coiffure  is  charming  !  " 

The  expression  upon  the  faces  of  Miss  Sylvia  and  Leo 
nella  was  so  ludicrous,  that  Myrtilla  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Ah  1 "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  in  his  most  petit  maitre 
tones,  "  how  could  I  have  so  long  neglected  to  place  my 
homage  at  the  feet  of  the  queen  of  beauty  1 " 

Myrtilla  laughed  at  this  languid  and  elegant  address  to 
her. 

"  I  cannot  pardon  myself,"  continued  Mr.  Effingham, 
arranging  his  drop  curls ;  "  if  Phillis  scorns  her  Corydon, 
and  beats  him  with  her  crook,  he  cannot  complain ;  his 
humbled  eyes  dare  not  rise  higher  than  the  ribbons  fluttering 
on  the  bodice  of  his  pastoral  princess." 

The  fashion  of  the  time,  must  plead  Mr.  Effinghain's 
excuse  for  this  extraordinary  speech.  Our  lovely  fore- 
mothers  relished  these  rural  allusions,  and  started  with 
delight  at  the  mention  of  Chloes,  Phillises  and  crooks.  And 
so  Myrtilla  made  a  laughing  courtesey :  and  Mr.  Effingham 
turned  away.  He  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  small 
gentleman  who  had  criticised  him  so  pleasantly,  and  whose 
criticism  his  quick  eye  had  seen  reflected  m  his  face,  as  the 
young  man  had  danced  opposite  to  Beatrice. 

"  Oh !  really  a  great  pleasure  ! "  said  he,  now,  to  thii 
gentleman,  "  are  you  here  too  ?  " 


284  MR.    EFFINGHAM   RETURNS   TO   THE   BALL. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  small  gentleman,  sullenly. 

w  And  with  as  long  a  waistcoat  as  ever,"  continued  Mr 
Effingham,  smiling. 

"  Sir  1 " 

"  Yes,  a  pleasant  ball — but  the  society  is  somewhat 
mixed,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  courteous  smiles,  "  things 
are  becoming  changed.  Is  it  not  so,  ladies  ?  Gay,  adorable 
shepherdesses,  clad  in  the  bloom  and  freshness  of  the  spring 
— am  I  not  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  sir,"  said  Sylvia,  tossing  her  little 
head  :  a  manoauver  which  Mr.  Effingham  rightly  attributed 
to  the  fact  that  the  damsel  meant  to  allude  to  Beatrice. 

"  Why,  nothing  could  be  plainer,"  he  continued. 

"  Nothing,  sir  I  "  here  interposed  the  small  gentleman, 
with  a  frown.  Mr.  Effingham  slightly  turned  round,  as 
much  as  to  say  "  did  you  presume  to  reply  to  me,  sir  ?  "  and 
went  on  superciliously. 

"Very  mixed — shockingly,"  he  said;  "every  body  is 
beginning  to  mingle  in  society,  and  we  now  see  all  descrip 
tions  of  costume.  I  do  not  complain  of  the  simple  dress  of 
the  lower  class,  yonder — I  like  it.  What  I  allude  to  is  dif 
ferent.  I  refer  to  those  individuals  who  endeavor  to  make 
up  by  splendor  what  they  lack  in  good-breeding,  and  who 
load  their  dress  with  all  manner  of  remarkable  and  extraor 
dinary  ornament — " 

Myrtilla  began  to  laugh,  mischievously  glancing  at  the 
small  gentleman,  who  winced. 

"  Shocking  taste,  and  shows  their  condition,"  added  Mr. 
Effingham  ;  "  they  even  persist  in  wearing  those  abominable 
waistcoats,  as  brilliant  as  the  rainbow,  and  nearly  as  long — 
invariable  indication  of  the  parvenu." 

And  Mr.  Effingham  smiled  amiably  at  the  gentleman  in 
the  long  waistcoat,  who  was  furious — raised  his  hand  with  an 
air  inexpressibly  foppish,  to  the  ladies,  and  moved  on. 

He  encountered  Jack  Hamilton,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  foxhunters  like  himself,  was  laughing  and  talking 
at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  here  is  Effingham  I "  said  Hamilton,  "  where  is 
Miss  Hallam  ?  " 

Mr.  Effingham  replied,  calmly : 

"She  got  tired,  and  I  returned  with  her.     You   see, 


MR.    EFFINGHAM   RETURNS   TO   THE   BALL.  288 

however,  that  I  have  made  my  appearance  again — my  friends, 
I  fear,  had  not  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  me." 

And  his  cold  eye  told  Hamilton  very  plainly  what  he 
meant.  Honest  Jack  laughed. 

"  By  George  !  I  believe  they  are  all  your  very  excellent 
friends  by  this  time,"  he  said ;  "  they  calculated  without 
their  Virginia  blood,  when  they  spoke  of  resenting  Miss 
Hallam's  appearance.  They  forgot  that  they  were  a  dozen 
men  matched  against  one  woman." 

"  And  a  sword,  Hamilton." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Hamilton,  "  forget  that,  and  don't 
tet  the  fellows  here,  who  are  jolly  boys,  as  you  know,  into 
our  little  secrets.  They  are  waiting  to  be  recognized  by 
Monseigneur." 

This  was  true  ;  and  when  Mr.  Effingham  held  out  his 
hand  to  the  party,  who  were  all  slightly  acquainted  with  him, 
it  was  taken  with  hearty  warmth,  and  not  a  few  rough  and 
sincere  compliments  paid  to  Beatrice,  though  they  did  not 
scruple  to  say  as  plainly  that  there  "  was  no  use  in  bringing 
her." 

In  consideration  of  their  good  feeling,  our  hero  pardoned 
this  :  and  then  leaning  on  Hamilton's  arm,  passed  on.  Ten 
steps  brought  him  in  front  of  his  Excellency — and  that  gen 
tleman,  no  longer  checkmated  by  the  presence  of  Beatrice, 
turned  away  with  great  hauteur.  Mr.  Effingham  only 
smiled,  and  passed  on,  leaving  Jack  Hamilton  behind. 

He  went  through  the  room  with  his  cold,  disdainful  smile, 
seeking  his  adversaries : — strange  to  say,  however,  they 
seemed  to  be  far  from  those  ferocious  personages  described 
by  Mr.  Hamilton.  He  could  find  nothing  to  take  umbrage 
at,  and  so  he  returned  towards  the  door.  The  simple  fact 
was,  that,  proud  and  disdainful  as  Mr.  Effingham  was,  he 
feared  to  encounter  the  eye  of  his  father,  or  of  Henrietta,  or 
Alethea,  or  Clare.  He  had  understood  the  cause  of  the 
young  girl's  sudden  faintness  perfectly  well.  She  had  enter 
ed  from  the  second  room,  and  seen  him  dancing  a  minuet 
with  that  rival,  whom  she  had  so  generously  forgiven,  and 
clasped  to  her  pure,  tender  heart — and  though  Mr.  Effing 
ham  was  ignorant  of  the  fact  of  the  interview,  he  wai  at  no 
loss  to  understand  Clare's  emotion. 

This  was  the  reason  why  he  feared  to  meet  her — and  yet 


286  BEATRICE  AND  THE  MANAGLR 

with  that  dread  was  mingled  a  strange  desire ;  as  if  be  wish 
ed  to  stand  before  her  and  give  her  look  for  look,  and  break 
her  heart  and  his  own.  Mr.  Effingham  began  to  feel  a  dis 
eased  craving  for  excitement — he  had  become  accustomed  to 
acute  and  painful  emotions;  he  fed  on  them  as  his  daily 
bread. 

Fortunately  this  insane  desire  was  doomed  to  disappoint 
ment.  Clare  had  left  the  ball  almost  at  the  same  moment 
with  himself  and  Beatrice  :  had  entered  the  Effingham  cha 
riot  with  the  squire  and  his  party  just  as  his  own  carriage 
drove  off. 

Once,  as  Mr.  Effingham  drew  near  the  door,  he  encoun 
tered  the  gaze  of  Henrietta,  who  had  chosen  to  remain  with 
Hamilton  :  and  with  rage  in  his  heart  he  made  her  a  low 
and  exaggerated  bow.  Then  passing  by  the  gentleman  in 
the  long  waistcoat,  with  a  meaning  look  full  of  disdain  and 
menace,  he  struck  his  hat  upon  his  head,  and  rushed,  almost, 
from  the  room. 

His  infatuation  for  Beatrice  had  never  so  closely  ap 
proached  madness  as  at  that  moment 


CHAPTER    LI. 

BEATEICE  AND  THE  MANAGES. 

HAVING  thus  briefly  related  the  manner  in  which  Mr. 
Effingham  returned  to  the  ball,  and  sought  for  adventures 
there  like  a  second  Don  Quixote,  though  without  the  good 
fortune  of  the  noble  gentleman  of  La  Mancha,  we  shall  now 
go  back  to  the  moment  when  Beatrice  re-entered  her  room, 
after  the  trying  ordeal  she  had  passed  through. 

As  we  have  said,  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  was  sitting  pla 
cidly  by  the  fire,  which  was  far  from  uncomfortable  at  that 
advanced  season  of  the  autumn.  Upon  Beatrice's  entrance  he 
turned  round,  smiling.  Beatrice  was  in  tears,  and  sobbing. 

"  What  in  heaven's  name  is  all  this  crying  about  ?  "  asked 
the  manager,  who,  having  emptied  his  nightly  two  bottles, 
was  in  a  most  contented  state  of  mind;  "you  are  a) way* 
crying,  Beatrice !  " 


BEATRICE   AND    THE    MANAGER.  287 

"  Oh,  father  1 "  she  said,  and  then  stopped. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  impatiently,  "  speak." 

"I  am  not  well." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  It  was  killing  to  me." 

"  Bah  !  every  thing  kills  you,  but  you  always  amtinue 
alive,  as  I  recollect  hearing  the  great  Congreve  say,  once  on 
a  time." 

"  I  am  really  sick,  sir." 

"Was  the  ball  brilliant?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Was  Mr.  Effingham  attentive  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  the  set  up  women  treat  you  badly  f  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  You  were  treated  politely  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  danced  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  The  governor  bowed  to  you  ?  " 

"  Very  politely,  sir." 

"  Then  in  the  name  of  all  the  fiends  what  are  you  crying 
about,  daughter  1  You  are  really  a  very  extraordinary  girl 
You  go  to  a  brilliant  ball,  with  a  handsome  and  attentive 
cavalier ;  you  are  not  treated  badly  by  the  fine  ladies,  but 
very  kindly  ;  you  danced  among  the  best,  the  governor  of 
Virginia  made  you  a  polite  bow,  and  after  all  this,  which 
would  turn  the  head  of  any  common  girl  with  joy,  you  come 
back  crying,  instead  of  laughing,  sorrowful  instead  of  happy. 
Basta  !  as  the  great  Congreve  was  wont  to  say,  you  are 
foolish  ! " 

Beatrice  sat  down,  wiping  her  eyes,  and  murmuring  the 
words  she  had  read  in  Kate's  Bible,  before  going — "  Oh, 
Lord,  my  strength  and  my  Redeemer  !  " 

"  What  is  that  you  say  ?  "  asked  Hallam,  stretching  his 
feet  luxuriously  on  the  fender,  and  looking  with  muddy  eyes 
at  the  ceiling. 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  said  the  young  girl,  trying  to  command 
her  voice. 

"  Beatrice,"  said  Hallam,  "  you  are  perfectly  ridiculous  • 
you  are  throwing  away,  by  your  folly  and  obstinacy,  th0 


288  BEATRICE   AND    THE    MANAGER. 

mosf  excellent  offer — I  say  it  without  hesitation — which  wai 
ever  made  to  an  actress.  One  would  really  think  that  you 
were  a  duchess,  with  your  rent-roll  and  estates,  instead  of 
the  daughter  of  an  actor,  like  myself." 

Beatrice  listened  with  a  strange  feeling  to  these  words. 
Again  that  martial  face  rose  for  her  from  the  far  southern 
land  ;  again  she  saw  the  soldier  dying,  and  her  tears  flowed 
afresh. 

"  Instead  of  acting  as  you  should  do,"  continued  Hal- 
lam,  working  himself  into  anger,  "  instead  of  being  to  this 
young  man  the  brilliant  and  fascinating  woman  which  you 
are — instead  of  managing  him,  and  spurring  him  on,  aud 
attracting  him — instead  of  giving  him  hope,  and  you  know 
his  intentions  are  perfectly  honorable — instead  of  this,  what 
are  you  doing  ?  You  are  making  your  eyes  and  face  thin 
with  weeping,  you  are  growing  ugly  from  grief  at  having  a 
splendid  position  in  society  thrust  on  you- — you  are  defying 
my  wishes,  madam !  You  know  I  wish  you  to  marry  this 
young  fellow.  Answer  ;  are  you  not  disobedient  ?  "  and  the 
manager  pushed  back  his  chair,  angrily. 

"  Oh,  father,  father  !  "  she  cried,  carried  away  by  her 
feelings,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  be  disobedient.  I  will  do  all 
you  wish  me  to  do,  but  that  1  I  will  work  day  and  night, 
and  never  complain — but  do  not,  do  not  ask  me  to  marry, 
or  encourage  this  man  1  I  do  not  like  him,  I  shudder  when 
he  approaches ;  all  my  good  traits  of  character — and,  indeed, 
I  have  some — become  changed  to  bad  in  his  presence.  He 
repels  me  ;  something  tells  me  that  he  will  be  my  curse  yet  1 
Oh,  I  cannot  do  as  you  command — I  cannot  smile  and  make 
myself  attractive,  and  show  him  that  I  like  him — for  I  do 
not  1  I  should  be  the  most  miserable  person  living,  were  I 
his  wife  1  " 

"  Really  ! "  cried  the  manager.  "  Truly,  madam,  the 
countess  is  in  her  tantrums  1  You  would  be  the  most  mis 
erable  creature  alive,  as  his  wife  ?  " 

"  Oh,  miserable,  sir  I  " 

"  He  repels  your  ladyship  1  " 

"  I  tremble  when  he  comes  near  me  1 "  she  cried,  weeping. 

"  You  would  not  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  for  it  would  break  the  heart  of  a  pure  girl, 
who  loves  him,  aud  would  have  been  his  wife,  if  I  had  never 
seen  him  I " 


BEATRICE   AND   TfiE   MANAGER.  2$9 

"  Really,  you  are  very  magnanimous  I  Pray,  who  is  that 
?rl  ?  " 

"  Miss  Lee,  his  cousin." 

"  What  does  her  fate  concern  you,  pray,  madam  ?  " 

"  She  forgave  me,  and  took  me  in  her  arms,  and  kissed 
me.  Oh,  God  is  my  witness,  that  I  would  rather  cut  off  my 
right  hand  than  make  her  suffer  again  !  " 

"  Where  the  devil  did  you  enact  that  fine  drama  ?  "  said 
the  manager,  frowning. 

"  I  went  to  see  her." 

"  You  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  at  her  home,  near  Mr.  Effingham's." 

"  And,  no  doubt,  told  her  how  much  you  hated  him ; 
that  you  were  not  to  blame  if  her  lover  was  infatuated  about 
you ;  that  you  had  repulsed  him,  insulted  him,  asked  him 
to  leave  you,  exhausted  every  means  to  make  him  abandon 
his  unworthy  project,  of  marrying  you — " 

"  Yes,  sir— I  did—" 

"You  did — 'Yes,  sir — I  did!'  sneered  the  manager; 
"  you  had  the  boldness  to  go  and  say  that  to  a  person,  who 
will  tell  him  every  thing — " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir  1  for—" 

"  In  future,  madam,"  said  Hallam,  angrily,  "  you  do 
not  ride  out  without  an  escort.  You  might  be  guilty  of 
worse  things  than  this  audacious  proceeding." 

At  this  unworthy  insinuation,  Beatrice  felt  the  blood 
rush  to  her  face,  and  her  heart  begin  to  throb  with  bitter 
and  rebellious  thoughts. 

"  Oh,  father  !  "  she  cried,  bursting  into  tears,  "  how  can 
you  be  so  cruel  ?  " 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  was  wrong ;  but  your  conduct  ia 
bad  enough,  madam.  I  suppose  this  child  was  at  the  ball — 
his  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.    Miss  Lee  was  preset* " 

"  How  did  he  treat  her  ?  " 

"  He  did  not  see  her." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  He  went  back,  I  believe." 

"  To  see  her  1 "  cried  the  manager  ;  "  your  prospects  are 
ruined  1  Beatrice,  from  this  moment-  —if  it  is  not.  too  late — 
you  act  just  as  I  bid  you  !  T  will  have  none  of  your  dis- 
13 


290  BEATRICE  AND  THE  MANAGE* 

obedience  in  future,  madam  !  You  shall  not  beard  me  with 
your  cryings,  and  entreaties,  and  childish  tears.  You  shall 
not  ruin  your  own  and  my  fortune  in  life.  I  command  you, 
madam,  to  behave  yourself  in  future,  better.  Take  caro  !  " 

Beatrice  felt  her  rebellious  heart  grow  more  bitter ;  sh« 
no  longer  thought  of  little  Kate's  Bible. 

"  I  will  have  no  nonsense,  madam  ! "  continued  her  father, 
in  a  rage.  "  I  will  not  have  a  child  like  you,  setting  at 
naught  all  my  wishes,  and  overturning  all  my  plans  in  life, 
by  your  ridiculous  folly.  In  future,  you  take  no  more  rides 
to  meet  your  lovers,  or  your  lovers'  sweethearts.  Under 
stand  me — I  will  not  be  dictated  to  by  my  own  child  I  As 
your  father,  I"  command  you,  in  future,  to  give  encourage- 
ment  to  this  young  man.  Don't  frown  and  look  rebellious 
at  me — I  will  not  submit  to  any  folly  I  If  you  choose  to 
act  as  you  have  done,  I  choose  to  tell  you  the  truth.  You 
have  ridden,  Heaven  knows  where,  to  see,  Heaven  knows 
who.  You  have  nearly  ruined  your  prospects ;  he  is  now 
gone  back,  and  if  what  you  say  about  your  interview  with 
her  is  true,  she  will  tell  him  all,  and  he  will  never  look  at 
you  again  1  Madam ! "  cried  the  manager  in  a  fury,  "  I 
shall  not  endure  this  1  As  your  father,  I  command  you  to 
obey  me  1  Take  care — you  have  some  silly  religious  feel 
ing,  and  that  feeling  will  tell  you,  that  if  you  dare  to  dis 
obey  your  father,  God  will  take  his  account  of  you.  I  am 
that  father — see  that  you  obey  me  !  " 

The  young  girl's  feelings  were  worked  up  to  the  avowal, 
her  heart  was  agitated  by  rebellious  and  obstinate  anger, 
but  she  could  not  throw  off,  all  at  once,  her  habit  of  affec 
tion  and  obedience.  Still  she  could  not  remain  silent,  and 
she  cried,  with  passionate  tears  :  "  Oh,  you  are  not  my 
father  !  God  has  revealed  to  me  my  real  father.  Mr. 
Emngham  brought  here  this  frock  1 "  And  with  a  quick 
movement,  she  drew  from  a  drawer  the  child's  garment 
"  That  God,  you  speak  of,  revealed  my  birth  to  me  1 "  she 
continued  ;  "  this  letter  has  told  me  all.  My  father  was 
Ralph  Waters  ;  my  name  is  Beatrice  Waters  1  "  And  over 
whelmed  with  her  emotion,  the  young  girl  sunk  into  a  seat, 
almost  fainting. 

The  manager  snatched  the  frock  and  the  letter  from  her 
iu  a  violent  rage  The  truth  all  at  once  flashed  on  him — ht 


BEATHICE    AND    THE    MANAGER.  291 

had  no  one  to  blame  but  himself,  and  with  a  furious  hand  he 
tore  his  hair. 

"  Yes  1 "  he  cried,  in  a  violent  rage,  "  yes  1  you  have 
dared  to  read  that  letter  1  you  have  dared  to  pry  into  what 
was  my  secret ! " 

"  Oh,  it  was  mine !  "  murmured  Beatrice,  bitterly. 

*{  You  have  dared  !  " 

And  Mr.  Manager  Hallam  again  tore  his  hair. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  father  !  "  cried  Beatrice,  calling  on 
God  to  calm  her  wicked  feeling  of  rebellion,  as  she  spoke ; 
"  I  felt  compelled  to  read  that  letter !  I  did  not  mean — " 

And  she  stopped,  choked  by  her  sobs.  The  manager 
sank  into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  risen  in  the  excess  of 
his  rage. 

"  Oh,  do  not  be  angry  with  me,  father  !  "  cried  Beatrice, 
burying  her  head  in  his  bosom.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  do 
wrong  !  I  am  your  daughter  still.  Do  not  frown  at  me." 

The  manager  slowly  became  calmer. 

"  I  love  you  as  much  as  ever,"  said  Beatrice.  "  I  felt 
wrong  just  now,  when  you  spoke  such  harsh  words — so  un 
just  ! — but  now  I  am  calm  again  !  " 

The  manager  began  to  cry — doubtless,  like  the  great  Con- 
greve. 

"  Oh,  father !  I  am  so  wretched  ! "  exclaimed  Beatrice. 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  make  you  suffer !  " 

"  To  be  defied  by  one  whom  I  have  always  loved !  "  ejacu 
lated  Hallam,  half  seriously,  half  from  policy,  giving  way 
afresh  to  his  emotion;  "  whom  I  raised  from  infancy,  trying 
to  find  her  family — defied  by  her  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  to  defy  you  !  indeed  I  did  not ! — • 
forgive  me,  father  !  I  am  your  daughter  still  1  " 

"  I  am  a  poor,  childless  old  man  ! "  muttered  the  manager, 
with  his  favorite  choking  cry. 

"  I  will  be  your  child !  "  cried  Beatrice,  weeping  pas 
sionately.  "  I  will  love  you  as  dearly  as  I  always  have  done, 
you  know,  father — you  have  been  so  good  to  me  1  What 
matter  if  I  am  not  your  daughter  in  reality.  What  mat 
ter  if  I  am  the  daughter  of  Ralph  Waters — the  brother  of 
Charles's  father."  He  started,  but  not  with  surprise;  he 
had  felt  that  John  Waters  must  be  Beatrice's  uncle,  for 
some  days.  "  Why  should  I  leave  you,  who  have  been  so 


TWO   WATER-DOGS. 

kind  to  me,  because  I  was  born  in  Malta,  where  my  father 
died,  and  am  not  your  daughter?  You  are  my  real  father- 
God  sent  you  !  My  real  name  is  Beatrice  Waters  ;  but  I  will 
be  Beatrice  Hallam  still.  Oh,  do  not  cry — you  break  my 
heart ! " 

She  again  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom  ;  but,  hearing  a 
noise,  raised  it  again.  Mr.  Effingham  stood  before  her,  and 
had  plainly  heard  the  words  she  had  just  uttered. 

The  scene  which  followed  was  one  of  those  which  are  best 
left  to  the  reader's  imagination.  The  pen  can  only  describe 
passions,  or  trace  utterances  to  a  certain  point — beyond  that 
it  yields  the  field  to  the  painter,  who  alone  can  make  the 
highest  passions,  the  most  conflicting  emotions,  eloquent. 
We  may  imagine  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Effingham,  on  hearing 
from  the  gloomy  and  agitated  manager,  that  his  own  act  had 
revealed  to  Beatrice  the  secret  of  her  birth ;  we  may  com 
prehend  the  rage  of  the  young  man  on  finding  that,  by  his 
own  agency,  Beatrice  had  come  to  know  that  Charles  Waters 
was  her  cousin,  his  uncle  her  father ;  we  may  further  under 
stand  the  despair  of  Hallam,  the  terrible  agitation  of  Bea 
trice — we  cannot  describe  them. 

When  Mr.  Effingham  went  away  to  his  room  that  night, 
he  was  a  prey  to  one  of  his  silent  and  sombre  rages  ;  he  had 
raised  this  new  barrier  himself.  The  instrument  of  fate,  and 
unknown  to  himself,  his  hand  had  opened  that  sealed  book ; 
and  what  the  young  girl  had  read  had  for  ever  separated  her 
from  him.  That  rival — bitterly  hated  before,  now  far  more 
bitterly — would  be  her  lawful  protector;  and  whether  in 
their  duel  he  fell  or  conquered,  nothing  would  be  gained.  A 
thousand  tumultuous  thoughts  like  these  chased  themselves 
through  his  mind — we  cannot  trace  them — it  is  a  repulsiv* 
subject,  and  we  pass  on. 


CHAPTER     LII. 

TWO  WATEB-DOGS, 

MR.  EFFINGHAM  spent  a  sleepless  night,  and  rose  more  agi 
tated  than  ever.     With  a  mind  supernaturally  active  from 


TWO    WATER-DOGS.  293 

feverous  emotion,  he  embraced  at  a  glance  all  his  latter  life. 
He  followed  the  history  of  his  infatuation  for  Beatrice  from 
his  first  meeting  with  her  in  the  forest,  near  Effingham  HalL 
through  the  scenes  at  the  theatre,  at  her  apartment,  in  the 
street,  at  the  ball,  to  this  last  final  denouement,  which  had 
cfcme  like  the  blast  of  the  trumpet  and  the  roar  of  the  drum, 
to  finish  all  before  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  drama. 

He  surveyed  with  a  lightning-like  glance  his  present  posi 
tion — the  state  of  his  mind  and  life.  He  felt  more  than  ever 
that  he  must  conquer  that  diabolical  angel  who  had  scorned 
him,  or  die.  She  must  yield  to  him,  or  he  would  yield  to 
her,  and  pass  from  the  earth.  He  raved  and  tore  his  hair, 
and  revolved  in  his  gloomy  and  agitated  mind  a  thousand 
plans.  All  were  rejected  after  a  moment's  reflection,  if 
that  word  could  be  applied  to  the  operations  of  the  young 
man's  mind. 

He  rose  in  despair,  and  the  room  seemed  too  close  to 
breathe  in.  He  went  out,  gloomy,  and  breathing  heavily. 
Suddenly,  as  he  entered  the  passage,  a  loud,  hearty  voice 
made  the  windows  jar,  and,  turning  round,  he  found  himself 
opposite  to  the  stranger. 

"  Good  day,  comrade,"  cried  the  soldier.  "  What  1 
gloomy  on  such  a  morning  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  coldly. 

"  Come,  drink  a  cup  of  this  abominable  Rhenish  they 
vend  at  this  hostelry,"  said  the  soldier,  laughing.  "  You  see 
me  in  excellent  spirits.  I  am  myself  again  !  " 

Indeed,  the  soldier  was  no  longer  cabined,  cribbed,  and 
confined  in  the  tight,  foppish  suit  he  had  originally  worn,  but 
was  clad  in  the  elegant  military  suit  which  we  have  seen 
Mr.  Effiugham  return  in,  on  the  night  he  left  Williamsburg 
for  York.  The  costume  seemed  infinitely  more  appropriate 
for  the  stranger's  vigorous  and  martial  figure ;  the  heavily- 
laced  but  dark  uniform  set  of  his  person  to  great  advantage, 
and  his  fine  face,  with  its  keen,  dark  eye  and  long  black 
moustache,  appeared  to  far  more  advantage  beneath  the  rich 
Flanders  hat.  The  stranger,  in  his  present  proper  costume, 
was  the  model  of  a  soldier. 

To  his  merry  observation,  that  he  felt  in  excellent  spirits, 
Mr.  Effingham  made  no  reply. 

"  Why,  see  now,  you  are  moody,  comrade  1     That  is  not 


the  philosophic  state  of  a  bon  soldat,  whether  Jn  the  ranks, 
or  in  life,  which,  parbleu  !  seems  to  me  as  much  a  battle  as 
Lissa,  Grlatz,  or  Minden.  Come  !  hold  your  head  up  I  I 
have  good  news  for  you  !  " 

"What  news,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  still  cold  and 
gloomy. 

"  Why,  I  am  just  about  to  go  and  arrange  the  details  of 
our  little  affair: — that  is  to  say,  I  am  going  to  see  Mr. 
Waters — brother  of  Ralph :  an  honest  straightforward  fel 
low  was  Ralph,  though  I  say  it,  parbleu  !  " 

"  Well,  sir  !  "  said  Mr.  Effingham,  already  tired  of  his 
companion. 

"  Arrange,  is  not  precisely  the  word,  companion,"  con 
tinued  the  soldier,  caressing  the  black  fringe  on  his  lip ;  "  I 
believe  the  day  after  to-morrow  is  fixed  upon — though  the 
time,  as  all  else,  should  have  been  left  to  us,  the  wheel-horses 

— the  seconds.     Your  friend  is  Mr. ,  you  omitted  to  tell 

me,  comrade,  in  the  multitude  of  affairs  we  had  to  arrange  : 
— you  will  recollect  that  you  omitted  it." 

"  Sty  at  once,  sir,  that  having  a  duel  forced  on  me,  I  had 
not  fixed  every  thing.  Well,  sir,  I  now  say  further,  that  I 
must  defer  the  whole  affair  for  a  day  or  two  longer.  Cir 
cumstances,"  and  Mr.  Effingbam's  lip  curled,  "  render  mo 
somewhat  cooler  in  the  quarrel." 

The  soldier  looked  keenly  at  the  young  man — but  a 
single  glance  convinced  him,  that  this  delay  did  not  spring 
from  backwardness  to  match  himself  in  combat  against  an 
adversary.  There  was  the  unmistakable  fire  in  the  eye; 
and  fighting  was  a  satisfaction  to  such  a  man,  he  felt. 

"  Perhaps  you  object  to  your  antagonist,"  said  the  sol 
dier,  coolly. 

"  No,  sir  !  I  do  not  1 " 

"  Come,"  said  the  stranger,  "  suppose  we  have  a  little 
bout  here  on  the  staircase.  You  really  seem  desirous  of  try 
ing  my  ferrara,  comrade." 

"  I  have  no  such  desire,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Effingham 
coldly,  "  and  if  my  tone  is  harsh,  it  is  because  I  am  in  no 
humor  to  answer  questions,  or  converse.  I  am  not  well, 
sir — arrange  this  matter  as  you  choose.  Mr.  John  Hamil 
ton  will  act  for  me — but  I  repeat,  that  I  will  not  meet  Mr. 
Waters  for  three  days  or  more." 


TWO  WATER-DOGS.  29$ 

"  Well,  well,  companion,  I  can  arrange  that.  By  heaven 
you  must  have  something  on  your  mind,  but  that  is  not  my 
affair.     I'll  empty  a  cup  of  Jamaica — I'm  done  with  the 
Rhenish — and  get  into  my  saddle.     Bon  jour — au  revoir." 

And  the  soldier,  curling  his  moustache,  and  humming  a 
rude  song,  took  his  way  down  the  staircase,  his  huge  sword 
rattling  against  the  banisters,  and  making  with  the  jingle 
of  his  heavily-rowelled  spurs,  a  martial  sort  of  music  elo 
quent  of  camps. 

Mr.  Effingham,  gazing  moodily  after  him,  observed  tha* 
he  stopped  suddenly  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  A  gentleman 
dressed  in  black  had  struck  against  him,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  the  said  gentleman  refused  to  yield  one  inch  of  the 
way.  Then  Mr.  Effingham  heard  the  important  and  pom 
pously-uttered  words : 

"  You  should  have  more  respect  for  the  clergy,  sir." 

And  no  less  a  personage  than  Parson  Tag  came  up,  and 
with  a  cold  bow  passed  into  the  apartment,  next  to  his  own 
— that  one  in  which  we  have  heard  the  man  in  the  red  cloak 
play  his  violin.  The  young  man  gazed  after  him  moodily, 
and  with  a  bitter  smile  ;  and  hesitated  whether  he  should  re 
turn  to  his  room,  or  descend.  A  glance  at  the  bright  sun 
shine  of  the  clear  cold  autumn  day  decided  him,  and  to 
escape  its  brilliance,  he  went  into  his  apartment  again,  with 
a  mocking  and  gloomy  face  painful  to  behold. 

Then  he  sat  down,  as  he  had  done  on  that  day  when 
little  Kate  had  come  to  see  him,  and  again  embraced  at  a 
single  glance,  the  sad  and  gloomy  horizon  of  his  life,  where 
no  sun  shone,  no  birds  sang.  Again  he  went  over  the  path 
which  he  had  trodden — revived  those  bitter  joys,  those  deli 
cious  agonies  he  had  suffered.  Full  of  gloomy  wonder,  he 
weighed  all  that  had  taken  place  in  his  acquaintance  with 
Beatrice,  and  as  before,  that  fatal,  unavoidable  question  came 
to  him,  where  would  all  this  end  ?  He  had  now  defied  so 
ciety  for  her,  and  he  was  convinced  that  he  stood  lower  in 
her  regard  than  ever — he  had  given  up  all  for  her,  she  dis 
dained  him  the  more  for  his  sacrifice.  As  his  love  increased, 
she  grew  colder — he  was  rushing  toward  the  abyss  1  And 
that  revelation  which  he  had  been  the  instrument  of  I 
Charles  Waters  was  her  cousin, and  she  loved  him, perhaps! 
He  had  given  that  man  the  right  to  watch  over  her,  to  defend 


296  TWO  WATER-DOGS. 

ker.  Thenceforward  there  was  a  new  and  more  irritating 
obstacle. 

"  Woe  to  him,  if  he  crosses  my  path  before  we  stand 
face  to  face,  sword  in  hand  1 "  he  muttered,  with  a  sombre 
and  threatening  flash  of  his  proud  eyes. 

As  he  spoke,  a  tap  came  at  his  door,  and  a  servant  en 
tered. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  young  man,  raising  his  head  with  a 
movement  which  frightened  the  negro  nearly  out  of  his 
wits,  "  what  now  ?  " 

"Two  boatmen,  Mas'  Effnum — say  they  want  to  see 
you." 

"  To  the  devil  with  them  1 "  he  said  :  but  suddenly  he 
paused — a  light  shone  from  his  eyes.  Already  his  mind 
had  conceived  the  outline  of  a  strange,  desperate,  and  auda 
cious  project. 

"  About  my  sail-boat  ?     Yes ;  go  and  bring  them  here 

—go  I11 

And  he  motioned  the  negro  feverishly  toward  the  door. 
In  two  minutes  the  door  opened  again,  and  the  rough-looking 
watermen  entered,  and  with  their  caps  in  their  hands,  louted 
to  the  young  man,  standing  respectfully  on  the  threshold. 

"  Close  the  door  and  come  in  1 "  he  said,  gloomily  :  the 
door  was  shut,  and  obedient  to  a  sign  from  Mr.  EflmghaiE. 
the  watermen  approached. 

"  About  my  sail-boat,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  said,  curtly. 

"  Yes,  your  honor,"  replied  the  water-dog,  who  seemed  to 
be  spoKe&man. 

"  Where  is  ahe  ?  " 

"  Down  at  the  landing,  by  Townes',  your  honor." 

"  You  got  up  to-day  ?  " 

"  Jest  so,  your  honor — and  she's  as  tight  a  little  craft/ 
as  ever  walked  the  water — swifter'n  a  waterfowl." 

Mr.  Effingham  looked  strangely  at  the  rough  watermen, 
who  turned  their  tarpaulins  in  their  hands,  and  coughed  re- 
Bpeotfully  behind  them. 

"  Is  she  fully  equipped  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Out  and  out,  your  honor.  I  never  see  a  jollier  craft; 
and  she  carries  sail  enough  for  a  merchantman.  I  was  a 
sayin'  to  mate  hero  only  jest  now,  'at  I  never  hearn  o'  such 
a  thing  afore." 


TWO    WATER-DOO8.  291 

"  And  she  is  down  there  ?  " 

"  At  Townes',  your  honor." 

"  All  ready  ?  " 

"  Ready  as  a  squall,  when  the  rags  are  taut." 

Mr.  Effingham  looked  at  the  water-dogs  again  with  the 
ume  strange  expression. 

"  Your  name  is  Junks,  is  it  not  ?  "  he  said,  motioning  to 
the  man  to  approach. 

"  Yes,  your  honor,  and  mate's  name  is  Jackson," 

"  Very  well — you  are  poor  ?  " 

"  Poor  as  a  lean  cat,  sir." 

"  "Would  you  like  to  make  fifty  pistoles  ?  " 

The  water-dogs  opened  their  eyes. 

"  I'd  sell  myself  to  the  devil  for  it,"  said  the  spokesman, 
laughing. 

"  No ;  I  wish  you  to  sell  yourself  to  me,"  said  Mr. 
Effingham,  with  haughty  coldness.  "  Is  this  weather  too 
cold  for  a  night  run  down  the  river  ?  " 

"  Your  honor  is  jokin' — it  ain't  warm,  but  ta'int  nothin' 
to  the  likes  o'  us." 

"  Whoever  I  brought,  then,  you  are  willing  to  shut  your 
eyes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  your  honor's  got  a  frolic  on  hand  ?  That  suits  me 
to  a  circumstance." 

"  And  me,  too,  your  honor,"  said  mate,  in  a  mumbling 
voice  from  behind  his  thick  woollen  comfort. 

Mr.  Effingham,  looking  keenly  at  these  men,  saw  that 
they  were  such  as  could  be  bought  for  much  less  than  fifty 
pistoles.  Then  he  was  silent.  A  struggle  seemed  to  be 
going  on  in  his  mind — his  brow  flushed,  then  grew  pale,  and 
his  cheeks  were  covered  with  a  cold  sweat.  The  w&ter-dogs 
looked  at  him  wonderingly,  for  his  eyes  were  not  a  pleasant 
sight — they  were  like  lurid  lightning. 

"  Wait  here,"  he  said,  suddenly,  as  he  heard  a  door  open 
and  close  without.  "  Don't  stir  until  I  return." 

And  hastily  putting  on  his  hat,  he  went  out,  closed  the 
door,  and  crossing  the  oassage,  entered  the  room  of  Bea 
trice. 


298  THE    LAST    INTERVIEW    BETWEEN 

CHAPTER    LIII. 

THE  LABT  INTERVIEW  BETWEEN  BEATRICE  AND  MR  EiyiNOHAM. 

BEATRICE  had  just  come  in,  and  was  sitting  in  front  of  the 
fire,  gazing  sadly  and  thoughtfully  into  the  blaze,  when  Mr. 
Effingham's  entrance  caused  her  to  turn  round.  For  a  mo 
ment  these  two  persons  who  sustained  toward  each  other 
such  strange  and  anomalous  relations,  maintained  perfect 
silence. 

At  last  Mr.  Effingham,  pale  and  gloomy,  yet  gazing  at 
the  young  girl  with  passionate  love,  said  abruptly,  and  in  a 
low  tone — 

"  We  meet  again  ;  I  trust  you  are  well  after  the  ball." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  tone  of  quiet,  uncomplain 
ing  sorrow;  "  I  do  not  think  I  feel  worse  than  usual." 

"  You  do  not  ask  me  how  I  am,"  he  said,  with  painful 
earnestness. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  she  said,  in  the  same  low,  sad  tones. 
"  I  hope  you  are  well." 

"  No ;  I  am  far  from  it — I  feel  as  if  my  brain  was 
bursting." 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir — sincerely." 

"  You  are  so  cold,"  he  said,  leaning  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  gazing  at  her  with  fixed,  stony  eyes.  "  You  have  n» 
pity  on  me." 

"  /pity  you,  Mr.  Effingham !  " 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  he  said.  "  We  know 
each  other  now.  I  mean  that  you  meet  all  my  love  with 
coldness — a  freezing  coldness ;  or,  if  not,  wi'<ii  cold  indiffer 
ence — with  contempt  1  I  mean  that  you  do  not  cast  your 
proud  eyes  down  on  the  man  who  suffers,  kneeling  at  your 
feet,  because  you  despise  him  and  his  love.  I  mean  that 
you  have  nothing  but  scorn  for  me,  when  I  have  nothing  but 
passionate,  devouring  love  for  you.  I  mean  that  I  love  you 
— love  you  with  all  the  power  of  my  soul,  with  all  my 
strength,  with  my  whole  being,  and  that  you  disdain  to  speak 
to  me  1 " 

"  Indeed  I  do  not,  BIT — oh,  no  1  If  I  have  been  harsh 
or  cruel,  or  unwomanly,  I  beg  you  to  pardon  it.  I  believe 


BE4TR..CE    AND    MR.    EFF1NGHAM.  299 

that  I  have  spoken  harsh  words  to  you  sometimes — -I  regret 
them.  I  have  no  right  to  scorn  any  human  being,  sir. 
God  does  not  approve  of  such  feelings.  Pardon  me  1 " 

The  earnest,  low-toned  voice  went  to  his  poor,  bruised 
heart — her  soft,  sorrowful  face  took  away  all  his  anger. 

"  Oh,  why  will  you  not  love  me  ?"  he  said,  with  painful 
earnestness.  "  Why  does  your  heart  still  remain  closed  to 
me?  See  me  here  at  your  feet,  Beatrice,  with  my  pride 
broken,  my  wilfulness  all  gone,  seeing  you  only  in  the  uni 
verse !  You  are  to  me  the  sole  light  which  shines  on  the 
dark  waters  of  my  life — you  know  it,  why  so  indifferent  to 
me  ?  Oh,  I  love  you  so  passionately  I  so  purely  1  I  follow 
you  with  yearning  eyes — I  live  in  you  and  through  you  1 
Why  still  despise  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not,  sir — I  must  not  feel  so  toward  any  human 
being." 

"  I  have  been  criminally  harsh — I  have  repented  of  it  in 
the  long  hours  of  the  gloomy  night — repented  bitterly." 

"  I  have  forgotten  it,  sir,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  Then,  for  pity's  sake,  do  not  look  at  me  so  coldly  1 " 

"  I  am  not  well  to-day,  sir." 

He  looked  at  her  with  inexpressible  love,  and  said : 

"  Did  you  only  know  how  much  I  suffer  when  you 
suffer  1  " 

"  I  do  not  complain,  sir. 

"  You  must  have  had  a  trying  ordeal  last  night  *" 

"  Yes  ;  very  trying." 

"  You  were  the  queenliest  of  them  all,"  he  said,  gazing 
on  her  with  passionate  love  and  pride.  "  Why  should  you 
not  give  me  the  right  to  lead  you  forth  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  as  I  did  before  that  assembly  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  I  cannot  be  your  wife,"  she  said.  "  We 
have  said  much  upon  this  subject.  It  only  distresses  me." 

"  Why,  Beatrice  ?  Give  me  some  reason  for  my  wretch 
edness." 

A  deep  flush  covered  the  young  girl's  sad  pale  brow,  a 
she  thought  of  Charles  Waters. 

"  We  are  not  suited  to  each  other,"  she  said. 

He  saw  the  blush,  and  his  own  brow  flushed.  His  super- 
naturally  active  mind  discerned  the  hidden  reason — left  un 
expressed — and  a  pang  shot  through  his  heart. 


300  THE    LAST    INTERVIEW    BETWEEN 

"  That  is  not  the  real  reason,"  ho  said  a  shadow  passing 
over  his  face. 

"  I  can  give  no  other,"  she  said,  with  a  deeper  blush  than 
before. 

Anger  began  to  invade  the  young  man's  heart  like  a  bit 
ter  and  poisonous  vapor. 

"  The  true  reason  is,  that  you  lore  another,"  he  said,  with 
a  cruel  groan. 

"  Mr.  Effingham  I  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  my  rudeness  is  insulting — my  plainness  re 
pulsive,  I  know  it  1  "  he  said,  bitterly.  "  But  how  can  I 
feel  my  heart  breaking,  and  not  speak?  You  love  that 
man  !  " 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  you  must  know  " — she  murmured,  suf 
fering  painfully — "  this  is  obtrusive,  sir — I — " 

"  Oh,  do  not  deny  it,  madam  ! "  he  said,  giving  way  to 
his  bitter  and  feverish  emotion.  "  You  scorn  me  and  my 
love — you  refuse  my  hand,  because  your  heart  could  not  go 
with  it !  " 

"  You  agitate  me,  sir  I  "  she  said,  "  I  am  not  well  1 
These  conversations  can  lead  to  nothing  1  " 

"  You  mistake,  madam  1  "  he  replied,  with  his  old,  gloomy 
bitterness,  "  they  lead  to  despair,  for  I  love  you." 

"  I  cannot  prevent  your  suffering,  sir — I  cannot  com 
mand  you  to  leave  me — if  I  could — " 

"  You  would,"  he  interposed,  "  you  need  not  assure  me 
of  that,  madam.  You  hate  me — you  scorn  me — because  you 
love  that  man  who  insulted  me  in  your  presence,  here.  Wo 
to  him  1 " 

And  Mr.  Effingham's  brows  grew  darker,  his  eyes  flashed 
with  hatred. 

"  Remember  he  is  my  relative,  sir,"  said  Beatrice,  flush 
ing  crimson. 

"  And  your  lover  1 " 

"  Mr.  Effingham  1 " 

"  Oh,  madam,  do  not  cry  out  according  to  your  wont.  I 
have  ruined  myself  for  you,  and  naturally  feel  some  objec 
tion  to  being  robbed  of  you  by  a  common  boor." 

"  Sir  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  offend  you  1 — make  you  hate  me  more  bitterly : 
but  for  that  same  reason  that  I  am  lost  from  seeing  your 


BEATRICE   AND    MR.    EFFINGHAM.  35  1 

fatal  beauty,  and  have  defied  all  the  powers  of  this  society, 
I  should  be  allowed  to  speak  plainly,  to  throw  aside  the  con 
ventional  rules  which  I  have  trampled  on  for  your  sake." 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  go  to  that  ball — it  was  a  cruel  trial," 
she  said,  coldly,  and  pressing  her  hand  upon  her  heart  as  she 
Bpoke,  "  my  father  exacted  it." 

"  You  did  not  like  your  escort,  I  know,"  he  replied,  bit 
terly  ;  "  you  were  too  good  for  him,  as  the  vulgar  expression 
goes." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  this  is  unworthy  !  " 

"  Yes,  madam  !  it  is  1  I  know  it !  But  I  cannot  feel  the 
poisoned  arrow  in  my  side,  like  St.  Sebastian,  and  be  silent — 
not  cry  out — not  utter  a  groan  !-  Oh,  may  you  never  know 
what  it  is  to  love,  and  that  hopelessly  ! — to  turn  and  toss  on 
your  sleepless  couch  through  the  long,  weary  hours  of  the 
gloomy  night — to  rave  and  curse  and  weep — to  utter  prayers 
and  blessings,  maledictions  and  blasphemies  !  may  you  never 
suffer  this  cruel  agony,  which  leaves  the  heart  torn,  the  cheek 
pale,  the  eyes  heavy,  the  brain  oppressed  with  a  bitter  and 
poisonous  mist !  may  you  never  love,  and  feel  that  love  is 
hopeless  !  " 

And,  overwhelmed  with  sour  and  gloomy  emotion,  he 
turned  away.  His  words  went  to  her  heart,  but  it  was 
almost  her  own  situation  which  he  painted,  and  this  made 
her  flush  and  tremble.  But  by  a  great  effort  she  became 
calm  again. 

"  You  know  not  what  you  say,"  she  murmured,  "  you 
know  your  own  sufferings,  not  mine,  sir." 

"  Yours  1  you  have  suffered  this — " 

"  I  have  suffered  much,  sir." 

"  You  have  felt  those  pangs  of  despised  love  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  you  agitate  me  !  you  have  no  right  to 
intrude  upon  my  privacy  thus  :  I  am  not  well,  sir — my  suf 
ferings  do  not  concern  yourself  :  pray  leave  me." 

"  Whom  do  they  concern,  then,  madam  ?  " 

«  Mr.  Effingham  1  " 

"  Perhaps  your  chivalric  cousin,  Mr.  Waters  !  " 

"  You  make  me  unwell,  sir  1  "  said  the  young  girl,  flush 
ing.  The  young  man  understood  what  this  exhibition  of 
emotion  sprung  from,  and  gnawed  his  lip  until  it  bled. 

"  You  might  pardon  that,  if  you  had  a  little  charity,"  h« 


302  THE    LAST    INTERVIEW    BETWEEN 

said,  bitterly ;  "  I  believe  that  I  was  the  instrument  in  r* 
vealingyour  secret." 

"  Yes,  sir — unconsciously." 

"  By  which  you  mean,  that  no  thanks  are  due  me. ' 

"  I  mean  nothing,  sir." 

"  Well,  you  are  right,  madam.  I  would  have  cut  off  my 
right  hand  before  I  would  have  had  any  agency  in  revealing 
that" 

"  You  are  truly  very  friendly." 

0  I  do  not  pretend  to  be,  where  my  love  and  despair  are 
concerned,"  he  said,  gloomily ;  u  I  had  some  claim  upon  Bea 
trice  Hallam,  the  actress — I  have  much  less  on  Miss  Wa 
ters." 

"  Mr.  Effingham — I  cannot  bear  this  much  longer  1  " 

"  You  will  leave  the  stage  ?  "  he  went  on,  pitilessly. 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir." 

"  You  hope  to  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sir." 

"  What  a  delightful  time  you  will  have  with  that  noble 
gentleman,  your  cavalier  I  "  he  said,  with  sombre  irony. 
"  In  future,  I  see  that  I  shall  not  be  allowed  to  kiss  your 
hand,  or  approach  you,  even." 

"  Oh,  leave  me,  sir  ! — " 

"  In  future,  my  days  must  be  without  even  your  frowns 
and  insults." 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  I  am  suffering  !  " 

"  You  suffering  1 " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  I  thought,  madam,  that  I  monopolized  the  despair  and 
agony  of  the  whole  world." 

"  You  do  not,  sir." 

"  And  because  you  suffer,  you  consider  that  you  have  the 
right  to  tear  my  heart.  I  am  despised,  because  you  suffer  ! 
I  admire  your  logic,  madam  1  " 

"  No,  sir,"  she  said,  growing  indignant  at  his  insulting 
tone,  "  though  much  of  that  suffering  has  been  caused  by 
you." 

"  Because  I  have  told  you  my  love." 

"  No,  sir — not  that  only." 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Every  thing  to  persecute  me  :  but  I  say  again,  that  I 


BEATRICE   AND    MR.    EFFINOHAM.  303 

do  not  wish  to  remember  that.  I  had  forgotten  it.  Pray 
leave  me — I  am  not  well,  and  cannot  bear  any  more  agita 
tion." 

He  gazed  at  her  long  and  fixedly,  with  eyes  burning  yet 
stony,  cold  yet  fiery. 

"Beatrice,"  he  said,  in  a  gloomy  and  sombre  voice,  "  this 
is  the  crisis  of  my  life.  This  moment  makes  or  mars  me. 
I  have  given  up  all  for  you — left  behind  all  that  makes  life 
happy  to  follow  the  ignis-fatuus  of  your  love.  If  you  cast 
me  off,  I  am  ruined — reflect." 

"  You  make  me  suffer  cruelly,"  said  poor  Beatrice, 
turning  away,  "  but— oh,  I  cannot,  will  not  marry  you,  sir  ! 
— I  cannot !  " 

"  For  the  last  time  !  "  he  said,  taking  a  step  toward 
her,  with  clenched  hands,  and  grinding  his  teeth;  "you 
refuse  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Effingham,  I—" 

"  You  spurn  my  love — despise  me  and  every  thing  con 
nected  with  me — still  scorn  me  ?  Reflect,  madam  !  " 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,  sir.  This  interview  is  killing  me 
My  breast  is — " 

"  For  the  last  time — yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  No  !  then,  sir  :  no  !  "  cried  Beatrice,  rising,  with  her 
hand  upon  her  heart ;  "  I  cannot,  will  not  1  " 

With  one  hand  he  tore  his  breast,  until  his  nails  were 
stained  with  blood — the  other  opened  and  clenched,  as 
though  in  his  fury  he  was  grasping  some  deadly  weapon. 
He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  with  rage,  despair,  and 
menace,  shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  muttering,  "  Breast  to 
breast,  then  !  force  against  force  !  "  rushed  wildly  from  the 
room,  and  passed  into  his  own,  the  door  of  which  closed 
with  a  crash.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards  the  boat 
men  came  out  and  went  away  ;  and  in  ten  minutes  Mr. 
Eflingham  made  his  appearance,  pale,  and  covered  with 
perspiration. 

He  held  in  his  moist  and  nervous  hand  a  Bank  of  Eng 
land  note  of  large  value ;  and  muttering,  "  That,  too,  can 
be  arranged  !  "  went  toward  the  room  occupied  by  the  parson. 


304  JEGRl   SOMN1A. 

CHAPTER  LIV. 

2BGEI  8OMNIA. 

EVENTS  Lurry  on.  As  the  passions  and  complicated  more- 
ments  of  the  drama  develope  themselves,  the  task  of  the 
chronicler  becomes  more  and  more  difficult.  We  must  pro 
ceed,  however,  to  narrate,  as  clearly  as  possible,  what  fol 
lowed  the  final  outburst  of  the  young  man's  fiery  passion — 
rejected  finally,  as  we  have  seen,  by  the  object  of  his  love. 

Night  drew  on,  cold  and  stormy.  It  was  one  of  those 
evenings  which  succeed  late  autumn  days,  when  the  sun 
seems  to  set  in  blood,  and  the  vast  clouds  reposing  on  the 
far  horizon  are  tinged  with  that  lurid  light  which  resembles 
the  glare  of  a  great  conflagration.  The  wind  rose,  and 
moaned,  and  died  away,  and  came  again,  ever  becoming 
chiller  and  more  mournful.  The  moon  rose  like  a  great 
wheel  of  fire  rolled  up  the  sky,  over  which  dark  clouds 
drifted,  driven  by  the  wind  ;  and  the  almost  leafless  forests 
seemed  to  be  murmuring  to  themselves,  and  whispering 
some  mysterious  secret.  The  tall,  gloomy  pines  waved  like 
solemn  giants,  in  the  fitful  moonlight,  and  the  oaks  ground 
their  boughs  together,  or  parted  with  their  last  rattling 
leaves,  in  the  stormy  gusts,  which  ever  and  anon  swept  over 
them,  clattering  their  dry,  hard  branches. 

In  the  town,  every  living  thing  soon  housed  itself  from 
the  chill  wind  and  the  gloomy,  fitfully-illuminated  night — 
and  not  the  cold,  cheerless  air  alone  drove  them  to  their 
firesides.  Those  were  the  times  when  men  believed  in 
witchcraft  and  every  species  of  diablerie ;  and  many  per 
sons  in  the  town  could  make  oath  that  they  had  seen  horri 
ble,  uncouth  figures,  celebrating  awful  and  mysterious  rites 
on  the  wild,  lonely  common,  near ;  where  the  pine  bushes 
waved  like  deformed  spectres,  trowing  long  shadows  over 
the  dangerous  ground.  It  was  a  night  for  fiends  to  be 
abroad  in,  holding  their  wild  revels  beneath  the  frosty  light 
of  the  great  solemn  moon;  and  none  cared  to  brave  it, 
when  a  good  fire  and  a  cup  of  foaming  ale  awaited  them. 
They  looked  round  fearfully  when  the  gust  moaned  by  the 
gables ;  and  told  tales  which  d-?alt  in  terrible  mysteries — in 


JEGUI    SOMNlA.  309 

hidden  treasure — in  fiends,  and  black  dogs  guarding  it — and 
how  the  witches,  who  had  tormented  honest  Christians,  had 
been  burned,  not  long  before,  for  an  example  to  all  evil 
doers.  It  was  a  night  to  believe  in  such  things,  and  they 
trembled  at  every  sound  —  at  the  very  grating  of  the 
branches  against  the  window. 

All  that  day  Beatrice  had  been  in  a  state  of  agitation 
and  nervous  fear.  The  interview  with  her  father  on  the 
night  before,  had  succeeded  the  trying  ordeal  of  the  ball, 
and  then  the  interview  with  Mr.  Effingham  had  crowned  all. 
That  interview  had  affected  her  cruelly — never  had  she  seen 
the  young  man  so  torn  by  passion,  so  completely  overwhelmed 
with  emotion — never  had  she  known  him  to  utter  such  de 
spairing  cries  of  agony  and  torture.  It  had  made  her  suffer 
deeply,  and  shocked  her  nervous  system  dreadfully.  In 
addition,  she  had  not  slept  for  more  than  forty-eight  hours, 
and  nothing  so  prostrates  the  nerves  as  this.  We  cannot 
wonder,  therefore,  that  the  young  girl  was  exhausted  in  mind 
and  body,  by  these  various  and  complicated  moral  and  phy 
sical  trials — subject  to  a  nervous  trepidation,  which  made 
her  start  at  every  noise. 

She  went  through  the  duties  of  the  day,  walking  as  in  a 
dream,  with  fixed  eyes,  and  heaving  bosom ;  her  agitation 
was  so  striking,  that  every  body  observed  it,  and  questioned 
her  about  it.  She  made  no  reply  to  these  questions — she 
seemed  not  to  have  heard  them.  Her  mind  was  laboring 
with  its  burden  of  fear  and  agitation. 

As  the  night  drew  on,  she  felt  an  indefinable  dread. 
Seated  in  her  room,  alone,  she  started  at  every  gust  which 
sobbed  around  the  inn,  and  trembled  at  every  noise.  The 
moonlight  now  streamed  through  the  window  like  a  flood  of 
dark,  fiery  gold,  then  disappeared,  swallowed  up  in  the 
gloomy  and  threatening  clouds,  which  swept  over  the  sky 
toward  the  far,  freezing  ocean. 

As  the  night  passed  on,  and  midnight  approached,  she  fell 
into  a  sort  of  trance  of  thought.  With  a  dreamy  eye  she 
ran  over  her  whole  life,  since  she  had  arrived  in  Virginia — 
she  thought  of  those  persecutions,  of  ihe  adventure  on  the 
river,  of  her  rescue,  of  that  noble  face,  of  those  persecution 
again,  of  the  ball,  of  tbj  strange  revelation  which  had  BO 
changed  her  life. 


306  jEGRI   SOMNtA. 

As  she  thought  of  that  strange  cor  junction  of  circunv 
stances,  her  eye  fell  upon  the  volume  of  Shakespeare,  open, 
from  habit,  on  her  lap.  She  read : 

"And  pity,  like  a  naked,  new-born  babe, 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  hora'd 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind  1  " 

The  words  seemed  to  apply  strangely  to  her  own  case. 
Truly,  that  deed  had  been  blown  in  every  eye,  by  an  acci 
dent  which  was  plainly  from  heaven.  With  dreamy  eyes, 
she  read  on,  and  came  to  the  passage  where  the  usurper  sees 
the  air-drawn  dagger,  and  feels  the  cold  sweat  of  horror 
bathe  his  brow,  as  he  attempts  to  clutch  it.  She  saw  him, 
with  his  stealthy  tread,  gliding  slowly,  the  murderous  weapon 
in  his  hand,  toward  the  apartment  where  the  murder  was  to 
be  committed — she  heard  his  low  breathing — saw  his  fiery 
eyes — almost  thought  that  his  awful  invocation  to  the  firm 
earth  not  to  hear  his  stealthy  steps,  was  really  uttered — that 
she  saw  the  tiger  stealing  toward  his  victim  with  deadly 
caution.  The  scene  was  so  clear  in  her  marvellously  vivid 
imagination,  that  she  trembled  ;  and  when  a  bird  flew  against 
the  window,  started  up  in  an  agony  of  fright. 

She  sat  down  again,  endeavoring  to  calm  herself;  the  fire 
was  burning  fitfully,  and  she  tried  to  make  it  brighter.  The 
last  sticks,  however,  were  burning  out,  and  the  trembling 
blue  flame  licked,  and  struggled,  and  clung  to  the  whitening 
embers,  and  went  out.  She  did  not  observe  it,  however 
she  was  again  buried  in  thought ;  and  those  thoughts  fled  to 
the  far  southern  land,  enveloped  in  such  mysterious  and 
dreamy  interest.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  life  she  novr 
embraced,  with  a  drowsy  and  unsteady  eye,  must  have  been 
in  another  world — a  strange,  far  world,  which  she  could 
never  go  to  any  more  forever  1 

Gradually  her  eyes  closed,  her  head  drooped  on  her 
breast,  then  she  would  start  up,  trembling  at  some  noise ; 
and  then  her  head  would  droop  again,  the  wild  stormy  gust 
would  lull  her,  and  the  fitful  weird  light  of  the  great,  sol 
emn  moon,  would  envelope  her  gentle  Madonna-like  head  in 
»  flood  of  glory.  At  last,  all  her  thoughts  flowed  into  each 


THE   FLIGHT   AND    PURSUIT.  307 

other,  merged  their  outlines,  lost  themselves  in  dreams,  and 
overcome  by  exhaustion,  the  young  girl  slept ;  her  head 
drooping  on  one  shoulder,  her  long  dusky  lashes  lying  on 
her  cheeks,  her  hair  waving  in  profuse  curls  round  the  still 
agitated  countenance. 

She  had  a  strange  dream.  She  thought,  as  the  second 
or  third  hour  after  midnight  struck,  or  rather  murmured 
through  the  silent  inn — she  thought  that  her  window  opened, 
and  a  man,  enveloped  in  a  cloak,  stepped  into  the  room 
through  the  opening.  The  dream  was  so  real,  that  she 
thought  she  felt  a  gust  of  chill  air  blow  on  her.  Then,  this 
man  approached  her  slowly,  enveloped  as  before,  in  his  long 
cloak  and  wide  drooping  hat ;  took  her  languid  form  in  his 
strong  arms,  raising  her  without  effort ; — and  passing  through 
the  window,  bore  her,  she  knew  not  how,  to  the  ground. 
A  horse  stood  waiting,  and  the  man  mounted,  holding  her 
still  in  his  arms.  Then  they  set  off  like  the  wind  ;  and 
shaken  by  the  quick  movement,  uttering  a  scream,  as  the 
chill  air  raised  by  the  horse's  gallop  struck  her  person,  she 
awoke,  and  found  her  dream  a  reality  1  What  she  had  re 
garded  as  the  mere  conjuration  of  her  excited  fancy,  was  a 
terrible  fact !  what  she  had  considered  a  mere  freak  of  the 
imagination,  was  real,  as  the  gloomy  night  through  which 
the  furious  and  neighing  animal  darted,  obedient  to  the  spur 
of  his  desperate  rider  !  She  was  in  the  arms  of  a  man,  who 
wrapped  her  in  his  cloak  with  one  hand,  while  he  clasped 
her  waist  with  the  other — the  bridle  lying  on  the  neck  of  his 
flying  animal.  In  five  minutes  they  had  left  the  town  and 
entered  the  gloomy  forest. 


CHAPTER    LV. 

THE   FLIGHT   AND    PURSUIT. 

THROUGH  the  gloom  as  through  the  moonlight,  under  the 
drooping  boughs  of  the  dark  pine  forest,  as  across  the  lonely 
tracts  of  bare,  waste  ground — *he  furious  animal,  driven 
pitilessly  by  his  rider's  spur,  fled  on. 

Clouds  of  foam  flew  from  l.is  reeking  jaws,  his  glossy 


308  THE   FLIGHT   AND    PURSUIT. 

coat  became  as  wet  as  though  he  had  just  issued  from  a 
river  ;  still  he  went  on,  his  speed  unabated. 

The  trees  flew  by — the  moon  came  out  and  flooded  the 
flying  animal  and  his  burden  with  its  chill  light,  then  swept 
beneath  the  clouds  again ;  the  cold  wind  moaned  and  sobbed, 
— still  on  ! 

The  silent  cavalier  only  drew  his  hat  further  over  his 
eyes,  clasped  the  young  girl's  waist  more  securely,  wrapped 
more  carefully  in  the  thick  cloak  the  tender  body,  which 
shuddered  with  cold  in  its  thin  dress. 

That  shudder  passed  over  his  own  person,  too,  as  if  they 
were  but  one — had  all  feelings  in  common — but  the  horse 
man  betrayed  no  other  evidences  of  emotion,  of  life. 

Once,  his  dark  fiery  eyes,  glowing  like  coals,  under  his 
slouched  hat,  met  her  own ;  once  his  warm  breath,  almost 
his  kiss,  touched  her  cheek  ;  but  he  did  not  kiss  the  cheek. 
It  was  only  to  see  if  her  arm  was  rubbed  against  the  pistols 
in  his  girdle,  or  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

Still  on  !  The  blast  blew  chiller,  the  wind  seemed  to 
sob,  and  moan,  and  laugh  in  cruel  glee  at  her ;  the  stars 
soaring  out,  looked  at  her  with  their  pitiless  and  sorrowfully 
twinkling  eyes,  then  were  obscured  again — still  on  ! 

She  seemed  still  to  be  in  a  dream  ;  the  whole  affair  had 
occurred  so  suddenly,  that  the  young  girl  could  scarcely 
collect  her  senses.  When  she  attempted  to  reason  calmly, 
the  dreadful  position  she  occupied  deadened  her  brain,  and 
her  mind  wandered.  Was  this  not  all  a  mere  dream  still  ? 
Could  it  be  real  ?  Was  it  not  the  mere  fancy  of  her  excited 
and  agitated  mind  ?  Could  she  not  wake  from  such  a  hor 
rible  nightmare,  and  sit  up  ? 

As  the  thought  passed  through  her  mind,  she  felt  the 
arm  around  her  waist  cling  tighter,  and  suddenly  the  animal 
reared,  made  a  desperate  leap,  fell  upon  his  knees,  sprung 
up  again,  trembling,  and  fled  onward  faster  than  before. 
She  looked  back,  and  saw  a  stream,  with  high  banks ;  the 
current,  of  great  width,  glittered  in  the  moon.  It  was  a 
desperate  leap,  even  for  a  phantom. 

But  she  began  now  to  collect  her  thoughts ;  and  sud 
denly  finding  her  voice,  said,  in  trembling  and  agitated  tones : 
"  You  frighten  me  1  you  hurt  me  !  Is  this  a  dream  or  a 
dreadful  reality  ?  You  are  killing  me  1 " 


THE    FLIGHT    A.VD    PURSUIT. 

The  cavalier  made  no  reply.  Beatrice  burst  into  tears, 
and  struggled  to  release  herself  from  his  arms — those  arms 
only  held  her  tighter.  She  said,  moaning,  that  her  position 
hurt  her ;  the  cavalier  dropped  the  bridle  on  his  horse's  neck, 
and  with  both  arms  raised  her,  laid  her,  so  to  speak,  on  his 
breast ;  and  thus  carrying  her,  like  a  child,  again  plunged 
his  spurs  into  the  quivering  side?  of  the  flying  animal,  and 
fled  faster. 

The  ocean  breeze  grew  colder,  the  odor  of  water  began 
to  fill  the  wild,  wandering  air  ;  the  night  grew  darker  and 
more  dismal. 

Nothing  was  heard  but  the  quick  smiting  of  the  horse's 
hoofs — the  far,  mournful  cry  of  a  whippoorwill,  and  the  low 
sighing  of  the  wind  through  the  solemn  pines,  under  whose 
boughs  the  animal  passed,  like  some  phantom  steed  of  the 
German  mythology. 

She  shrunk  as  the  boughs  bent  down  toward  her — for 
they  seemed  to  be  gigantic  hands  of  fiends,  stretched  out 
to  grasp  and  carry  her  away ;  she  sobbed,  and  wept,  and 
entreated,  but  in  vain — still  on  ! 

The  flying  animal  issued  from  the  forest,  and  entere^ 
upon  a  wild  waste,  from  which  the  James  River  was  visible 
in  the  distance,  glittering  like  a  silver  mirror  in  the  fitful 
moonlight. 

As  the  young  girl  caught  the  flash  of  the  far  waters,  she 
suddenly  felt  the  animal  arrested  by  an  obstacle,  which 
threw  him  to  one  side ;  a  loud  voice  came  to  her  ears — a 
voice  which  sent  a  thrill  through  her  brain — the  cavalier 
only  wrapped  her  closer  in  his  cloak,  and  with  a  muttered 
curse,  fled  on.  The  animal  seemed  to  scent  the  water,  to 
know  that  it  was  his  bourne,  and  with  incredible  speed 
darted  on,  and  disappeared  in  a  hollow,  thick  with  pines. 

That  obstacle  which  had  arrested  the  animal,  was  the 
body  of  a  man  ;  and  this  man  had  grasped  the  bridle,  been 
rolled  on  the  ground  by  the  chest  of  the  flying  horse,  and  then 
rising,  seen  the  whole  disappear  like  a  phantom.  It  was 
Charles  Waters,  and  spite  of  the  cloak,  the  disguise,  he  had 
recognized  Beatrice  and  Mr.  Effingham. 

For  a  moment  the  young  man  stood  motionless  in  the 
moonlight,  overwhelmed  with  horror ;  then  clenching  his 
bands,  he  fled  after  them  with  the  rapidity  of  a  race-horse. 


310  THE   FLIGHT   AND   PURStflf. 

He  now  felt  the  advantage  of  his  country  train  ing- —hii 
days  and  nights  spent  in  hunting ;  his  speed  was  scarcely 
less  than  that  of  the  flying  horse. 

As  he  fled  onward,  a  thousand  mad  thoughts  passed 
through  his  mind ;  curses  were  on  his  lips,  fire  was  in  bis 
heart. 

He  blessed  God  for  that  strange  feeling  he  had  experi 
enced  all  day,  that  Beatrice  was  in  danger — a  feeling  which 
had  accompanied  him  in  sleep,  had  waked  him  while  night 
still  lay  upon  the  earth :  which  had  driven  him  forth  toward 
the  town — which  had  led  him  there  to  rescue  her  I 

But  could  he  ?  That  animal  was  going  faster  than  any 
mortal  man  could.  He  would  be  too  late  1 

Whither  were  they  flying  ? 

That  sail-boat  he  had  seen  coming  up  the  river,  on  the 
day  before  ! 

He  clenched  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  glared.  Still  he 
sped  on. 

Yes  1  that  was  the  base  scheme  of  that  coward  !  Yes  1 
he  had  kidknapped  a  defenceless  girll  She  was  in  his 
power  1 

A  flame  seemed  to  pass  before  his  eyes;  he  felt  hia 
brain  totter :  no  matter — on  ! 

The  river  suddenly  bu/st  upon  his  view  : — he  ran  on 
with  staggering  steps,  heaving  bosom : — he  saw  figures  mov 
ing  on  the  shore  in  the  moonlight,  heard  the  faint  neigh  of  a 
horse.  He  felt  the  eyes  filling  with  blood — his  heart  throb- 
bed  with  the  desperate  exertion,  like  an  engine — still  on ! 

The  moon  shone  suddenly  on  the  white  sails  of  a  boat, 
as  she  veered  round — the  water  danced  in  the  moon,  and 
against  the  silver  mirror ;  he  plainly  saw  the  figures  of  three 
men,  who  carried  by  main  force,  some  object  in  their  arms 
toward  th'e  boat. 

With  fiery  eyes,  eyes  which  saw  nothing  clearly,  but 
through  a  flame,  it  seemed,  he  still  sped  on.  His  strength 
•was  exhausted — he  tottered  as  he  ran  : — he  staggered,  still 
on! 

They  reach  the  boat — they  embark — she  is  gone !  Ha 
tore  his  hair,  and  uttered  a  sob  of  rage  and  despair. 

Suddenly  a  dark  object  interposed  itself  between  the 
worn-out,  exhausted,  overwhelmed  pursuer,  and  the  bright 


ON  THE   RIVER.  311 

Water  illuminated  by  the  moon.  This  object  was  the  hut  of 
Townes  the  boatman,  and  a  despairing  hope  flashed  through 
his  breast. 

He  staggered  toward  it — seeing  flame — breathing  fire,  he 
thought.  A  light  was  burning  in  the  window — a  shadow 
passed  to  and  fro. 

He  tottered,  gasping,  to  the  door — fell  against  it — burst 
it  open — caught  the  boatman  by  the  shoulder,  and  said,  al 
most  inarticulately : 

"  Come  ! — you  must ! — I  must  have  ! — look  there  ! — they 
are  carrying  her  off — Miss  Hallam,  who  sailed  in  your  boat  I 
— she  is  my  cousin  ! — mercy  1 " 

And  staggering  he  would  have  fallen,  had  not  the  boat 
man  caught  him  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER     LVI. 

ON  THE  EIVEE. 

THE  boatman  Townes  was  one  of  those  men  who  understand 
perfectly  at  a  single  word,  and  act  quickly.  The  broken  ex 
clamations  of  Charles  Waters,  told  him  plainly  all  that  had 
occurred — he  understood  in  an  instant. 

"  Blast  my  eyes  !  "  he  cried,  cramming  his  tarpaulin  on 
his  head,  "  I  knowed  somethin'  was  a-goiii'  on !  But  I 
didn't  dream  o'  this  !  I  heard  them  horse's  hoofs,  but  the 
devil  himself  couldn't  a'  dreamed  this  !  I'll  have  the  craft 
ready  in  a  minute  1  Stay  here,  and  catch  your  breath, 
Charley,  and  we'll  live  or  die  together !  " 

With  which  words  the  boatman  grasped  a  heavy  stick, 
threw  down  another  before  Waters,  who  was  nearly  fainting, 
and  rushed  from  the  hut. 

With  two  bounds  he  was  at  his  boat,  and  slung  off  the 
chain  which  held  the  bark  to  the  shore.  Then  with  a  rapid 
and  experienced  hand  he  caught,  and  tore  open  the  sail — 
tied  it  to  the  gunwale,  and  seized  his  oars.  Charles  Waters 
was  at  his  side  panting,  his  eyes  on  fire,  his  looks  fixed  upon 
the  other  boat. 

Obedient  to  oar  and  sail,  the  "  Nancy  "  darted  from  the 


312  ON   THE    RIVER. 

shore,  and  plunged  her  cutwater  into  the  silver   expanse 
raising  clouds  of  cold  spray. 

The  other  boat  was  much  of  the  same  description : — her 
size  was  greater — she  was  more  ornate — that  was  all. 

On  fire  with  his  terrible  emotion,  his  eyes  burning,  his 
body  trembling,  Charles  Waters  bent  to  his  oar  like  a  giant : 
it  was  as  much  as  the  boatman  could  do  to  keep  the  craft 
from  whirling  round,  so  tremendous  were  these  strokes.  The 
boat  flew. 

"  Look  !  "  cried  the  boatman,  "  I  can  see  him  1  It  is 
young  Mr.  Eflingham  !  " 

«  Yes !— don't  stop  !  " 

"  Him !  "  cried  the  boatman,  wonderingly. 

"  Yes  !  '  you  would  live  and  die  with  me  1 '  row  1  " 

"  That  will  I ! " 

And  plunging  his  oar  into  the  water,  the  powerful  boat 
man  sent  the  craft  twenty  feet. 

The  men  in  the  other  boat,  plainly  saw  that  they  were 
pursued,  and  bent  to  their  oars. 

The  bark  groaned  with  its  enormous  mass  of  sail,  and 
careened  dangerously.  Standing  in  the  bow,  with  one  arm 
around  Beatrice,  Mr.  Eflingham  looked  on  gloomily.  He 
knew  very  well  that  a  deadly  encounter  was  imminent — this 
encounter  he  both  desired  and  dreaded  : — dreaded  because 
Charles  Waters  was  her  cousin. 

The  young  girl  tried  to  shrink  from  him. 

"  Oh,  for  pity's  sake,  do  not  carry  me  away  1  "  she  cried. 

He  only  gazed  bitterly  at  her. 

"  Oh,  it  is  cruel ! "  she  cried. 

"  You  were  cruel  to  me  !  "  he  muttered,  hoarsely. 

"  They  are  pursuing  us — they  will  rescue  me  1 " 

"  Yes,  when  I  am  dead." 

"  Oh,  it  is  Charles  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Yes,  your  excellent  cousin :  we  shall  meet  soon — I  see 
they  are  gaining  on  us  !  " 

And  Mr.  Effingham  drew  a  pistoL 

"  Oh,  for  mercy's  sake  ! — mercy  !  do  not  fire  1 "  exclaimed 
Beatrice,  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"  Be  easy,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Eflingham,  gloomily,  "  I 
only  meant  to  try  the  lock  :  the  sword  will  settle  it.  Row, 
there,  row  1 " 


ON  THE    RIVER.  ?13 

And  seizing  an  oar  himself,  he  bent  to  nis  task  with  des 
perate  energy.  He  dreaded  the  encounter  more  than  he 
would  acknowledge. 

Beatrice  kneeling  and  watching  the  boat  which  was 
pursuing  them,  could  only  pray. 

That  boat  fled  toward  them  like  a  seagull.  It  seemed  to 
dart  rather  than  move.  Every  stroke  of  the  large  oars 
whirled  it  onward  through  the  foamy  surges,  and  the  mast 
groaned. 

"  We  are  gaining  ! '  cried  the  boatman,  "  look  1  " 

And  he  raised  his  hand,  to  indicate  the  position  of  the 
two  vessels. 

"  Row  !  row  !  "  cried  Waters,  hoarsely. 

The  boatman  bent  to  his  oar  again.  The  little  bark  flew 
over  the  water,  leaving  a  long  track  of  foam,  which  glittered 
in  the  moonlight.  Her  triangular  sail  bent  in  the  wind — her 
mast  groaned — she  bore  on  like  a  living  thing. 

The  excitement  of  Charles  Waters  was  terrible.  His 
brain  was  on  fire,  his  heart  felt  as  if  ice  were  pressed  to  it. 
That  woman  whom  he  loved  more  than  all  the  world,  was 
being  torn  from  him  by  his  insolent  rival — who  had  plainly 
compassed  her  abduction  by  some  skilful  trick ! — she  was 
being  borne  away  before  his  eyes !  And  uttering  a  groan  of 
rage,  he  threw  in  a  strength  in  his  oar-strokes  which  seemed 
almost  supernatural. 

The  boats  neared — but  the  greater  surface  of  sail  on  the 
foremost  still  made  escape  probable.  The  strength  of  the 
rowers  must  soon  wear  out  at  the  rate  they  were  going — 
then  the  foremost  boat  would  leave  her  pursuers  behind. 
She  was  already  flying  before  the  wind,  and,  as  we  have  said, 
careening  perilously. 

"  Oh,  they  will  escape ! — I  am  wearing  out  1 "  cried 
Waters,  with  a  despairing  groan. 

"  Cheerly,  cheerly  !  "  answered  the  boatman,  "we'll  give 
em  a  whack  yet." 

And  he  rowed  more  powerfully. 

"  I  will  throw  myself  into  the  water  and  die  there,  but 
I  will  overtake  them  !  " 

"  Look  1 "  shouted  the  boatman,  "  her  mast's  snapped  ! 
hurrah  !  " 

It  was  true — the  boat  could  not  carry  the  press  of  sail, 
14 


314  ON    THE    1UVER. 

and  too  well  built  to  capsize  easily,  the  frail  mast  had  Broken 
under  the  press,  and  fallen  over  the  side  with  all  its  mass 
of  canvas. 

The  craft  was  no  longer  any  thing  but  a  wreck  : — like  & 
wounded  sea-bird,  whose  wing  has  been  broken  by  the  hunts 
man,  she  paused  in  her  course,  verred  round  and  threatened 
to  go  down  with  every  wave. 

The  pursuers  darted  toward  her  like  lightning — they  were 
now  not  ten  yards  off. 

Again  the  foiled  and  infuriated  young  man  drew  his  pis 
tol,  and  this  time  it  seemed  with  deadly  intentions. 

The  barrel  glittered  in  the  moonlight  as  he  levelled  it. 
Then  again  he  replaced  it  with  a  curse,  and  with  one  arm 
round  Beatrice,  as  though  he  would  die  with  her,  awaited 
the  approach  of  his  pursuers. 

They  were  but  two  men — yet  he  knew  they  were  desper 
ate. 

The  boat  darted  toward  him — the  sides  of  the  small  ves 
sels  crushed  together  :  Charles  Waters  and  the  boatman, 
armed  with  their  heavy  clubs,  threw  themselves  from  their 
own  into  Mr.  Effingham's  craft. 

"  You  come  to  your  death  ! "  cried  the  furious  young 
man,  rushing  toward  Charles  Waters,  "  woe  to  you  !  " 

His  foot  caught  in  the  sail  which  cumbered  the  gunwale, 
and  he  half  fell. 

Beatrice  rushed  toward  her  cousin,  and  he  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  At  the  same  moment  Townes  levelled  the  fore 
most  waterman  with  his  club  :  the  other  grappled  with  him, 
and  endeavored  to  plunge  a  knife  into  his  side. 

Mr.  Effingham  rose  overwhelmed  with  fury.  His  blood 
boiled  with  rage — he  was  in  one  of  his  madnesses  of  passion. 

He  saw  only  that  one  sight  before  him — Beatrice  clasped 
in  the  arms  of  his  hated,  abhorred  rival.  He  only  under 
stood  that  that  rival  had  defeated  him,  despised  him. 

The  blood  rushed  to  his  head — he  staggered,  and  draw 
ing  his  pistol,  levelled  it  at  Charles  Waters'  breast,  and 
fired. 

A  sudden  careening  of  the  boat  deranged  his  aim,  and 
the  ball,  drawing  blood  from  Beatrice's  shoulder,  struck  the 
waterman  Junks,  just  as  he  had  nearly  strangled  Townes, 
and  had  lifted  his  knife  to  stab  him. 


THE    FATHER    AND    SON  815 

That  sudden  careening  of  the  boat,  saved  the  ufe  of 
Charles  Waters  and  his  friend. 

"  Oh  !  you've  got  it !  blast  you  !  "  cried  Townee,  as  his 
adversary  fell. 

Mr.  Effingham  saw  all :  he  saw  his  two  companions  dis 
abled — he  saw  himself  left  alone  to  contend  against  his  ene 
mies — he  saw  that  all  was  lost. 

One  thing  remained — revenge  !  And  as  Charles  Waters 
seeing  him  rise  sword  in  hand,  raised  his  arm,  protecting 
Beatrice  with  the  other,  the  infuriated  young  man  plunged 
the  weapon  into  his  breast. 

Waters  fell  backward,  dragging  down  Beatrice  who  had 
fainted.  The  sword  snapped  off  in  his  body  within  six  inches 
of  the  hilt — only  the  hilt  and  the  stump  remained  in  Mr. 
Effingham's  hand. 

With  a  wild  cry  the  boatman,  Townes,  threw  himself  on 
his  knees  beside  his  friend,  and,  crying  like  a  child,  sought 
to  stanch  the  blood. 

"  No — do  not — mind  me  !  "  said  Charles  Waters,  faintly, 
and  turning  deadly  pale  as  he  spoke,  "  attend  to Bea 
trice  ! " 

And  drawing  the  blade  from  his  breast  with  a  desperate 
effort  he  fell  back. 

The  boatman  tore  his  hair  with  both  hands,  and  wept 
until  he  was  worn  out.  Suddenly  he  started  up — woe  !  to 
that  man  !  He  was  alone  on  the  boat,  with  the  wounded 
and  dying. 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  boat,  he  saw  the  young  man 
swimming  desperately  toward  the  shore.  Exhausted,  over 
whelmed  with  horror,  the  boatman  sunk  back  and  fell,  his 
head  striking  heavily  against  the  side  of  the  boat. 


CHAPTER    LVII. 

THE  FATHER  AND  BON. 

MR.  EFFINGHAM,  uttering  a  wild  curse,  had  thrown  himself 
into  the  water  as  Charles  Waters  fell,  and  still  holding  the 
stump  of  the  bloody  sword,  had  struck  out  toward  the  shore 


316  THE   FATHER    AND    SON. 

At  one  moment  he  determined  to  make  no  effort  to  reach 
the  shore,  to  let  the  dark  waves  ingulf  him — but  nature 
prevailed.  Still  grasping  madly  the  weapon,  he  swam  toward 
the  bank,  and  issued  from  the  water  near  the  point  from 
which  he  had  started. 

His  horse  was  grazing  where  he  had  left  him,  and  came 
whinnying  to  him. 

He  mounted,  and  plunging  the  broken  sword  into  the 
scabbard,  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

There  was  the  bark  upon  which  the  mortal  encounter 
had  just  taken  place — a  dark  object  upon  the  silvery  ex 
panse. 

He  turned  from  it  gloomily. 

Where  should  he  go  ? 

He  looked  around  him  from  side  to  side,  and  shook  his 
head.  That  was  a  hard  question.  But  one  thing  he  knew 
— that  he  would  not  stay  there  to  be  devoured  with  rage 
and  despair. 

Motion  !  motion  I  and  striking  his  spur  into  the  animal's 
side  so  cruelly,  that  it  neighed  with  pain,  he  set  forward 
furiously,  his  hair  streaming  in  the  wind — his  lips  writhing 
— his  eyes  glaring  with  despair. 

All  was  thenceforth  lost  to  him — he  was  lost ! — his  infat 
uation  for  that  diabolical  angel  had  ended,  as  he  predicted, 
in  a  terrible  crash,  which  shook  the  props  of  his  whole  life ! 
But  at  least  he  had  no  longer  that  rival. 

Every  noise  startled  him — he  trembled  at  the  moan 
ing  of  the  wind — shook  at  the  fitful  shadows  : — the  moon 
seemed  to  grow  pale,  the  stars  to  fade.  Still  the  wild  ani 
mal  fled  on — the  bridle  on  his  neck — his  sides  reeking  with 
sweat. 

The  young  man  knew  nothing  of  the  road  he  was  tak 
ing  : — he  did  not  see  that  the  animal,  with  a  strange  instinct, 
had  followed  the  road  to  the  hall,  avoiding  the  town. 

Still  on  !  more  desperately,  still  he  urged  the  flying 
horse  with  his  spur — he  tried  to  outrun  his  thoughts  in  vain. 
They  pursued  him  like  ferocious  bloodhounds,  and  caught 
him  with  their  sharp  teeth,  and  tore  him  1 

The  sobbing,  panting  animal  bounded  onward  wildly — 
passed  mile  after  mile,  and  entered  the  forest  stretching 
around  the  hall,  just  as  the  first  streak  of  dawn  reddened 
in  the  east. 


THE    FATHER    AND    SON.  317 

The  young  man  raised  his  head  and  looked  around. 

"  This  place  is  familiar  to  me,"  he  muttered,  "  it  is 
home !  " 

And  he  groaned. 

The  poor  moaning  animal  halted  in  front  of  the  great 
portico ;  and,  panting,  covered  with  sweat,  foaming  at  the 
mouth,  stood  still.  Mr.  Effingham  dismounted  and  passed 
his  hand  over  his  neck — the  affection  of  that  animal  was 
grateful. 

Suddenly  a  voice  startled  him  and  he  turned  round.  It 
was  a  negro  just  risen,  and  his  face  expressed  the  greatest 
delight  at  seeing  his  master  back.  Mr.  Effingham  gave  him 
his  hand — ordered  him  to  attend  to  his  horse — and  then> 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  entered  the  hall,  sombre,  and 
moving  slowly. 

He  sat  down  in  the  library,  where  a  fire  had  just  been 
kindled,  for  the  squire  was  accustomed  to  rise  very  early  : 
and  looking  round,  took  note  of  all  the  familiar  household 
objects,  which  he  had  not  seen  for  so  long — years,  it  seemed 
to  him. 

There  was  the  squire's  writing-table  covered  with  papers, 
and  ears  of  corn,  and  specimen  apples,  and  large  heads  of 
wheat.  There  was  the  plain  leather-bottomed  chair  with 
the  marks  of  powder  on  the  carved  back,  where  the  old  gen 
tleman's  head  had  rested.  There  was  the  book-case  half 
open — the  "  Gazette  "  lay  on  a  chair — Willie's  new  whip 
was  on  the  floor.  There  was  his  mother's  portrait  over  the 
fire-place  : — he  turned  from  it  with  a  groan.  There  was  lit 
tle  Kate's  embroidery  now  finished,  and  converted  into  a 
screen : — he  looked  away  from  that  too.  And  the  shadow 
on  his  brow  grew  deeper : — his  pale  lips  writhed. 

A  step  behind  him,  startled  him,  and  he  rose.  The 
squire  stood  before  him. 

The  old  gentleman's  pride  was  all  broken  in  his  heart, 
by  the  sight  of  his  long  lost  son ;  and  he  would  have  grasped 
his  hand  hard :  but  Mr.  Effingham  drew  back. 

"  No  sir,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "  do  not  touch  that  hand : 
there  is  blood  on  it  1 " 

"  Blood  1 "  echoed  the  horrified  squire,  with  wide  dis 
tended  eyes. 

"  Blood  I — the  blood  of  a  man :  perhaps  that  of  a  w(  man 
too/' 


318  THE    FATHER    AND    SON. 

And  the  shadow  in  the  dark  eyes  grew  deeper. 

The  squire  fell  into  a  chair  overwhelmed  with  this  an 
nouncement :  he  could  not  speak  at  first.  At  last  he  re 
gained  his  voice,  and  said,  with  a  gasp : 

"  Blood  ?  whose  blood  ?  " 

"  A  rival's." 

"  Who  ? " 

"  Mr.  Charles  Waters." 

The  old  man  groaned. 

"  That  woman  ! — that  woman  I "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
which  trembled  piteously. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  woman  ! "  replied  his  son,  with  eyes  which 
resembled  nothing  human,  "  you  were  right  in  warning  me 
against  her.  She  has  ruined  me — I  am  lost  1 " 

The  squire  could  not  reply  : 

"  I  have  committed  a  murder,  sir,"  continued  Mr.  Effing- 
ham, — "  see,  my  sword  is  still  bloody,  I  believe — " 

And  drawing  from  the  scabbard  the  stump  of  the  wea 
pon,  on  which  some  drops  of  clotted  blood  still  hung,  he 
threw  it  on  the  floor  before  the  old  man. 

"  A  murder  ?  "  cried  the  squire,  turning  deadly  pale. 

"  Well,  sir — no  :  not  an  assassination,  for  his  arm  was 
raised  to  strike  me,  and  he  was  not  alone — " 

"  Thank  God  ! — I  am  spared  that '  "  groaned  the  old 
man. 

"  But  it  is  scarcely  better,"  said  the  young  man,  in  the 
same  tone  of  gloomy  calmness,  "  I  carried  off  a  woman,  sir : 
that  woman,  whom  you  rightly  dreaded  so  : — yes,  she  has 
been  my  evil  genius — my  fate  !  I  loved  and  hated  her — I 
was  mad  1  But  this  is  from  the  purpose.  I  carried  her  off 
— was  pursued — first  on  land — then  on  the  water — we  were 
attacked — my  associates  in  the  diabolical  affair  were  both  dis 
abled,  one  of  them  by  myself,  one  by  his  adversary — then  I 
plunged  my  sword  into  my  enemy's  heart,  having  first  tried 
to  kill  him  with  my  pistol,  thinking,  from  a  stumble  I  made, 
that  he  would  strike  me  unprepared.  That  is  it,  sir." 

And  looking  at  the  squire  with  lurid  eyes,  the  young 
man  paused. 

"  I  believe  the  ball  wounded  the  woman,"  he  added, 
hoarsely. 

"  But  thank  Grod,  you  did  not  kill  in  cold  blood  1 "  cried 


THE    FATHER    AND    SON.  319 

his  father,  "  it  was  while  your  blood  was  hot,  and  in  a  strug. 
gle.     My  poor  son  !  how  fatally  this  has  ended  1" 

And  the  squire  covered  his  face. 

"  Yes,  sir — ruin  has  been  the  end  for  me  : — henceforth, 
I  am  lost.  As  I  shall  probably  be  wanted  by  the  officer! 
of  the  law  some  time  to-day,  I  think  that  we  had  better 
decide  upon  something." 

"  Yes — yes  ! "  cried  the  squire,  starting  up,  "  you  art 
right !  The  officers  of  the  law  arrest  you  ! — my  son  !  " 

And  the  old  man,  with  some  of  his  youthful  heat,  flushed 
to  the  temples. 

"  The  middle  age  is  past,"  said  Mr.  Effingham,  with  the 
same  sombre  calmness ;  "  we  cannot  drop  the  portcullis,  and 
from  our  castle  bid  defiance  to  all  foes." 

The  squire  fell  into  his  seat  again. 

"  There  is  one  way  which  ends  all,  and  well  ends  it," 
continued  the  young  man,  with  the  calmness  of  incipient 
madness ;  "  I  have  another  pistol — if  the  water  has  not  wet 
ted  the  powder." 

And  he  drew  it  from  his  belt.  The  squire  wrested  ity 
with  a  groan,  from  his  hand. 

"  Well,  sir — you  are  right.  I  feel  that  this  is  the  act 
of  a  coward.  I  have  no  intention  of  committing  suicide  : — 
what  remains  ?  " 

"  To  the  continent ! — Oh,  you  can  go  to  Europe." 

"  I'm  tired  of  it,  sir." 

"  But  Virginia — you  cannot  remain  in  Virginia." 

"  True." 

"  The  paper,  there  ! — see  what  vesse)  sails,  and  when 
Perhaps  one  goes  from  York,  or  Noil'olk,  this  very  week." 

And  the  squire  seized  the  paper :  the  first  words  he  read, 
were : 

"  On  Saturday,  the  21st,  will  s*il  from  the  port  of  York, 
for  Amsterdam,  via  Liverpool,  the  bark  CHARMING  SALLY, 
Capt.  Fellowes— " 

"  That  is  to-morrow  !  Oh,  go  in  this  vessel !  "  cried  the 
agitated  squire,  losing  all  his  pride,  and  melting  at  the  sight 
of  the  pale  and  disfigured  features  of  his  son. 

"  Well,  sir — that  will  suit  me  as  well  as  any  thing 
else." 

"  I  will  send  off  a  servant  to  engage  your  passage  in  th» 


320  THE    FATHER    AND    SON. 

ship,  instantly — Cato  will  understand  : — he  is  as  secret  as 
night :  instantly  !  " 

And  the  squire  hastened  out. 

Mr.  Effingham  sat  down  again  with  the  same  stony  calm 
ness  : — that  calmness  would  not  have  pleased  a  physician. 
He  was  in  that  state  of  despair  which  deadens  the  nerves. 

Suddenly  a  light  step  came  down  the  stairs — Kate  en 
tered — saw  him — ran  to  him,  and  with  a  face  radiant  with 
joy,  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  pressed  her  cheek 
to  his  own.  Then,  as  a  sequel  to  all  this,  she  burst  out  cry 
ing,  from  pure  delight. 

Mr.  Effingham  removed  the  arms,  and  rose : — she  shrunk 
back,  frightened  at  his  expression — it  was  terrible. 

"  Oh,  cousin,  Champ  1 "  she  cried,  "  you  won't  drive  me 
from  you ! " 

He  was  silent. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  not  angry  at  me,  for ,  oh  1  you  make 

me  feel  so  badly  1 " 

And  she  sobbed. 

"  I  cannot  talk  to  you  now — I  cannot  kiss  you — I  am 
not  angry  with  you — "  he  said. 

And  muttering  to  himself,  he  went  his  way  to  the  cham 
ber,  which  he  had  occupied  before  leaving  the  hall,  and  dis 
appeared  at  the  turn  of  the  great  staircase  from  Kate's  eyes. 
The  child  sat  down,  and  wept  piteously. 

The  day  drew  on,  and  still  the  young  man  remained  in 
his  chamber.  Miss  Alethea  passed  in  and  out,  making  pre 
parations  for  him,  and  her  face  was  observed  to  be  bathed 
in  tears.  The  squire  shut  himself  up  in  his  library,  and 
only  once  came  out  to  ascend  to  Mr.  Effingham's  chamber. 

About  noon  a  visitor  in  a  military  dress,  and  with  a  coun 
tenance  convulsed  with  passion,  came  to  the  Hall,  and  was 
closeted  for  an  hour  with  the  old  man  in  the  library,  from 
which  were  heard  high  voices,  "  parbleus  ! "  and  exclama 
tions.  Finally  the  voices  moderated,  and  the  visitor,  still 
much  moved,  but  more  calm,  came  out  and  rode  away. 

The  squire  went  to  the  young  man's  room,  and  told  him 
that  the  brother  of  Charles  Waters — Captain  Ralph  Waters, 
had  just  come  and  informed  him,  that  his  brother  was  not 
dead — though  he  was  despaired  of — and  the  young  woman 
scarcely  at  all  injured.  A  flush  greeted  this  information 
a  sombre  frown, 


THE  FATHER  AND  son.  $2* 

"  Was  there  no  challenge  left  for  me,"  he  asked. 

«  By  Captain  Waters  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"None." 

And  the  squire,  to  avoid  further  embarrassing  questions, 
went  j)ut.  The  Captain  had  come  to  take  Mr.  Effingham's 
life  in  return  for  his  brother's — simply  and  purely — and  he 
would  have  "  left  a  challenge,"  had  the  squire  not  made  him 
change  his  mind.  How  this  was  effected  must  remain  a 
mystery. 

The  night  drew  on  cold  and  gloomy,  and  Mr.  Effingham 
was  to  set  out  for  York  soon  after  midnight.  He  and  the 
squire  sat  up  talking,  for  neither  could  sleep.  No  persons 
were  present  but  themselves,  and  we  know  nothing  of  that 
conversation. 

About  two  o'clock,  when  a  chill  wind  had  arisen  and 
moaned  round  the  gables,  Cato  came  and  reported  the  horses 
ready,  and  took  his  master's  baggage. 

Mr.  Effingham  then  wrapped  himself  in  his  cloak ;  buck 
led  on  a  new  sword,  calmly,  and  went  out. 

As  he  entered  the  passage  he  was  approached  by  a  small 
figure  clad  in  white.  This  was  Kate,  who  was  in  her  night- 
clothes,  and  who  pressed  with  her  bare  feet  the  chill  polished 
oak  of  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  cousin  Champ  1  "  she  sobbed,  "  please  don't  go 
without  kissing  me !  They,  made  me  go  to  bed,  but  I 
couldn't  sleep,  for  you  were  going.  Oh,  don't  go  away  feel 
ing  angry  with  me.  Please  kiss  me !  " 

The  hard  heart  was  overcome :  he  stooped  down  and 
took  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  pressing  her  to  his  breast, 
two  large  bitter  tears  rolled  down  his  pale  thin  cheeks. 
Then  hastily  kissing  her,  he  again  wrapped  his  cloak  around 
him  and  passed  on. 

In  fifteen  minutes  he  was  in  the  saddle. 

The  wild  wandering  wind  sobbed  mournfully  around  the 
lofty  gables  and  through  the  pines. 

This  was  the  sound  which  greeted  Mr.  Effingham  as  he 
turned  his  back  upon  the  Hall,  and  rode  forth  into  the  cold, 
gloomy  night. 


32  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  MS.  SPEAKS. 

CHAPTER    LVIII 

THE  AUTHOR  OP  THE  MS.  SPEAKS. 

"  HERE  let  us  pause,"  says  the  author  of  the  manuscript 
from  which  these  scenes  are  taken,  "  and  looking  back  on 
the  current  of  events  which  we  have  seen  flow  on  through 
light  and  shadow,  endeavor  to  extract  briefly  their  signifi 
cance. 

"  In  the  history  of  my  respected  ancestor,  Champ  Effing- 
ham,  Esq.,  I  think  I  discern  something  which  reminds  me 
of  an  Eastern  fable  I  have  met  with.  The  enemy  of  Hu 
manity,  the  tale  relates,  came  and  found  the  first  man  sleep 
ing  calmly  under  the  palois  of  paradise  :  and  gazing  long  at 
him,  endeavoured  to  find  some  weak  point  of  attack.  But 
the  lordly  face  of  the  sleeper  made  him  groan  with  rage 
and  disappointment.  He  saw  the  brows  made  to  conceive 
pure  and  noble  thoughts — the  chiselled  lips  shaped  to  express 
those  thoughts,  and  utter  prayer.  He  saw  the  strong  arm, 
with  its  iron  muscles,  moulded  wondrously  to  strike  and 
overthrow  wrong,  should  wrong  trench  upon  the  fair  fields 
it  cultivated  : — all  repelled  the  enemy.  At  last  he  observed 
the  movement  of  the  sleeper's  heart,  and  kneeling  down, 
tapped  upon  it  with  his  finger.  It  sounded  hollow,  and  the 
enemy  smiled,  as  only  fiends  smile. 

"  '  Here  is  a  cavity  1 '  he  muttered ;  '  I  will  fill  it  with 
passions  ! ' 

"  And,  leaving  the  sleeper  writhing  in  his  slumbers,  the 
enemy  of  souls  disappeared. 

"  My  worthy  ancestor,  Mr.  Effingham,  seems  to  have 
afforded  proof  that  this  fable  is  not  wholly  fanciful.  His 
passions  were  so  strong  that  he  was  led  by  them  to  the  com 
mission  of  actions  which  he  often  regarded  with  wondering 
disgust  in  after  years : — that  infatuated  young  man  whose 
acts  he  recollected,  scarcely  seemed  to  be  himself.  His  mad 
passion  for  the  young  girl  had  changed  his  whole  character. 
Chivalrous  and  noble,  it  made  him  persecute  a  woman,  and 
exhaust  the  depths  of  bitterness  and  weakness.  Sweet-tem 
pered  and  affectionate,  under  all  his  languid  and  satirical  in 
difference,  if  the  phrase  may  be  used,  his  character  WM 


THE   AUTHOR   OF   THE  MS.    SPEAKS.  323 

changed  by  that  infatuation  into  one  of  sour  and  bittei  scoff 
ing  and  mocking  sarcasm.  Careless  of  the  prejudices  of 
rank,  and  disposed  to  treat  all  men  with  cordiality  and  kind 
ness,  it  made  him  taunt  with  low  birth  the  rival  who  sup 
planted  him.  Venerating  his  father,  it  led  him  to  write  to 
that  father  a  letter  of  cold  defiance — and  lastly,  it  made 
him  commit  an  action  which  madness  alone  excuses — the 
forcible  abduction  of  an  unoffending  girl : — and  his  wild,  tur 
bulent,  mad  career,  was  wound  up  by  an  attempt  to  take  th 
life  of  a  man  whose  only  crime  was  love  for  that  woman 
who  had  driven  him  mad. 

"  Mr.  Effingham  was  a  true  descendant  of  the  man 
tempted  by  the  fiend,  and  filled  with  passion. 

"  But  then  we  may  observe  in  this  career  equal  proof  of 
what  Mr.  Charles  Waters  had  said  to  the  man  in  the  red 
cloak — that  the  human  heart  is  not  radically  false  and  hate 
ful,  but  suffers  for  the  crimes  it  is  led  by  passion  to  commit, 
cruelly;  and  ever  strives  to  disentangle  itself  from  the 
meshes  of  that  fiery  net  which  is  bound  around  it  by  fate. 

"  In  the  midst  of  all  his  delinquency — when  he  was  per 
secuting  the  young  woman — defying  society  and  his  family, 
uttering  unworthy  and  insulting  words  to  his  rival — carry 
ing  off  Beatrice — striking  at  the  heart  of  her  defender  : — all 
this  time,  remorse  and  sombre  rage  with  himself  burned  in 
his  agitated  heart  like  fire.  We  have  traced  some  of  the 
scenes  in  his  lonely  chamber,  in  which  these  stormy  emotions 
were  bared  to  his  own  consciousness,  even  in  words — and  we 
have  seen  on  one  occasion,  that  the  fury  of  his  suffering  and 
remorse  nearly  led  him  to  self-destruction.  We  have  seen 
how  on  that  occasion  he  caught  the  child  to  his  heart,  and 
called  her  his  guardian  angel  and  blessed  her  : — at  that  mo 
ment  his  good  impulses  were  strong,  and  had  not  the  words 
of  his  friend  revived  the  slumbering  passion  in  his  heart, 
many  of  the  events  herein  narrated  would  never  have  oc 
curred. 

"  Even  in  the  midst  of  his  most  furious  rages — when  ho 
tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  the  victim  of  cruel  in 
justice  and  unjustifiable  scorn,  his  heart  still  whispered  to 
him  that  he  was  the  wrong-doer ;  and  in  that  night  and  day 
after  the  river-fight,  his  remorse  grew  to  a  climax.  We  have 
peeu  how  he  was  touched  by  the  affection  of  an  animal,  how 


324  TWO   SCENES  ON   A   WINTER   NIGHT. 

he  mingled  his  tears  with  those  of  the  child  when  she  bade 
him  farewell.  Those  tears  were  not  unmanly  ones,  and  are 
pleasanter  to  think  of  now,  to  me  at  least,  than  all  his  fear 
less  acts,  his  scornful  defiances  cast  in  the  teeth  of  tho  uni 
verse. 

"  I  have  not  space  to  speak  further  of  those  other  per 
sonages  who  were  grouped  around  my  ancestor,  the  central 
figure  of  them  all,  and  attracting  to  his  splendid  and  fiery 
graces,  his  wild  passions,  every  eye :  Beatrice — pure  and 
lovely  creature  !  whose  portrait  I  have  vainly  striven  to  de 
lineate,  must  be  passed  by :  and  Charles  Waters,  too ;  the 
pure  thinker.  In  after  pages  of  this  history  I  shall  endeav 
our  to  develop  further  those  feelings  which,  so  much  mo^e 
than  mere  events,  enter  into  the  lives  of  my  personages." 


CHAPTER    LIX. 

TWO  SCENES  ON  A  WINTEB  NIGHT. 

THE  writer,  after  these  moral  reflections,  which  we  have 
transcribed  for  the  benefit  of  our  readers,  goes  on  to  narrate 
how,  after  the  fight  upon  the  river,  the  two  watermen  leaped 
into  the  "  Nancy,"  and  without  exchanging  compliments, 
excuses,  or  regrets,  ran  off  with  that  craft ;  even  Junks  with 
a  bad  wound  in  his  arm,  rowing  as  if  the  officers  of  the  law 
were  already  on  his  track : — further,  he  goes  on  to  tell  how 
Charles  Waters,  by  his  own  request,  was  borne  to  his  father's : 
— how  Beatrice,  stanching  her  bleeding  arm,  would  not 
leave  him : — how  the  old  man  wept  and  sobbed  as  he  met 
his  dying  son  : — how  the  Chevalier  La  Riviere,  otherwise 
Captain  Ralph  Waters,  uttered  furious  "  morbleus  ! "  and 
threats,  and  tore  his  moustache  : — and  how,  day  by  day, 
nursed  by  the  tender  hand  of  Beatrice,  the  young  man's 
wound  in  the  shoulder-blade  grew  gradually  better,  and  his 
deadly  pallor  changed  more  and  more  to  the  hue  of  health  : 
— all  this  is  related  by  the  worthy  writer  of  the  MS.,  at 
considerable  length. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  these  scenes :  the  reader, 
BO  doubt,  will  be  able  to  understand  all  that  is  necessary 


TWO    SCENES   ON   A   WINTER   NIGHT.  32£ 

without  the  aid  of  the  chronicler.  Let  us  pass  over  a 
month,  and  on  a  winter  night  enter  the  plain  and  simple,  but 
cheerful  and  comfortable  mansion  of  the  old  fisherman,  and 
see  what  the  inmates  are  engaged  in. 

The  apartment  is  the  one  which  we  have  already  entered 
several  times,  and  a  cheerful  fire  is  burning  in  the  wide, 
rude  fireplace.  Two  stones  serve  the  purpose  of  andirons, 
and  a  hook  stands  out  prominently  from  the  great  cross 
beam.  The  light  of  the  fire  fills  the  room,  bathing  in  its 
full  rich  flood  of  warmth  and  brightness  the  nets,  the  fish 
ing  rods,  the  brown  rafters  overhead  with  their  strings  of 
onions  and  bacon  flitches  ;  and  these  humble  objects  take  a 
glory  from  the  brilliant  light,  and  seem  to  laugh  and  move 
about  as  the  flame  rises  and  falls,  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy. 

In  one  corner  of  the  great  chimney  sits  old  John  Wa 
ters  with  his  venerable  gray  head  bent  down,  his  face  bright 
with  its  habitual  smile  of  simple  good-nature  and  kindliness. 
The  old  man  occupies  the  chair  of  state,  which  is  woven 
into  a  species  of  basket-work  and  softly  cushioned — the  work 
of  Charles.  He  wears  his  ordinary  dress  of  fustian;  his 
stockings  are  of  woollen,  and  his  huge  shoes  are  decorated 
with  huge  buckles.  His  gray  hair  is  tied  in  a  queue  behind, 
and  in  his  hard,  bony  hand  the  old  man  holds  a  corn-cot 
pipe,  which  he  replenishes  from  time  to  time  by  inserting 
his  fingers  into  the  ample  pocket  of  his  long  waistcoat,  and 
then  thrusting  the  bowl  into  the  ashes,  from  which  it  re 
appears  crowned  with  a  burning  coal,  and  sending  up  clouds 
of  fragrant  smoke. 

Opposite,  and  crouching  on  his  stool,  sits  Lanky,  the  cart- 
boy,  who  seems  to  be  eternally  protesting  against  something, 
for  he  shakes  his  head  from  north-east  to  south-west  inces 
santly,  and  gazes  into  the  fire  with  a  profundity  which  would 
have  delighted  Newton.  Lanky  is  clad  in  a  pair  of  orna 
mental  woollen  stockings,  and  has  enormous  feet,  which  oc 
casionally  are  stretched  out  toward  the  blaze,  then  with 
drawn,  as  the  warmth  penetrates  too  feelingly  into  his  shins  : 
— his  short  clothes  are  of  leather,  and  are  much  soiled — hia 
waistcoat  is  tattered  and  torn,  and  the  pockets  are  stuffed 
with  whip-lashes,  nails,  and  iron  rings,  apparently  the  debria 
or  some  defunct  harness; — his  coat  has  lost  a  portion  of 
the  skirt.  Lanky  has  been  working  all  day — has  be«n  with 


326  TWO    SCENES   ON    A   WINTER   NIGHT. 

the  cart  of  fish  and  vegetables  to  Williamsburg ;  and  now 
like  an  honest  fellow  with  an  excellent  conscience  takes  his 
ease  on  his  stool,  and  munches  when  the  hunger  fit  seizes 
him,  his  bread  and  bacon,  and,  as  we  have  said,  carries  on 
that  silent  protest  against  something  or  somebody,  with  his 
head,  which  closely  resembles  a  pine  knot. 

Immediately  in  front  of  the  cheerful  fire,  and  seated 
close  to  the  rude  pine  table,  Townes,  the  boatman,  and  the 
Chevalier  La  Riviere — or,  dropping  this  nom-de-guerre,  Cap 
tain  Ralph  Waters — occupying  themselves  with  a  sheet  of 
paper,  lying  on  the  rough  board,  on  which  the  Captain  has 
traced  a  diagram,  the  lines  of  which  are  something  less  than 
an  inch  in  breadth.  Townes  is  clad  in  his  usual  dress,  half 
sailor,  half  farmer,  whole  boatman.  The  Captain  is  re 
splendent  in  the  fine  military  suit  which  we  have  seen  Mr. 
Effingham  dressed  in,  and  his  long  sword  lies  by  him  on  a 
settee.  His  moustaches  are  longer  and  blacker  than  ever  ; 
his  eye  more  laughing,  his  voice  louder,  his  "  parbleus  !  " 
more  emphatic,  as  he  explains  the  diagram  of  the  battle  of 
Rosbach  to  the  boatman. 

"  Faith  !  there  it  is !  "  says  the  Captain,  twirling  his 
moustache,  and  making  a  dig  at  the  paper  with  his  broad- 
nibbed  goosequill,  "  there  is  the  river  Saal — these  dots  here 
represent  Marshal  Soubise's  forces,  opposite  the  head-quar 
ters  of  the  great  Frederic ;  and  here,  at  this  line,  Prince 
Hildbourghausen  had  posted  himself." 

"  Hill — who  ?  "  asks  Townes,  scratching  his  head,  "  talk 
it  out  plainer,  Captain." 

"  Hildbourghausen  !  "  says  the  soldier,  laughing ;  "  faith  1 
that  is  nothing  to  some  of  the  jaw-breakers  I  have  been 
compelled,  for  my  sins,  to  pronounce,  man  ami!" 

"  Hell — bug — housen,"  says  the  boatman,  in  a  low,  med 
itative  tone,  "  now  I've  got  it !  " 

"  Well,  here  was  the  river — we  crossed  on  the  5th  of 
November,  all  colors  flying — a  glorious  day,  and  a  glorious 
set  of  devils  to  fight  it  out — though  I  say  it.  I  ean't  go 
over  the  battle — but  fifty  thousand  mounseers  bit  the  dust, 
or  were  taken: — see,  here  was  my  share." 

And  opening  his  coat,  the  soldier  showed  a  deep  s  :ar  on 
his  breast. 

"  A  bayonet  did  it — but  I  ran  the  follow  through  for  it, 


tWO    SCENES   ON   A   WINTER   NIGHT.  327 

and  the  great  Frederic  made  me  a  captain.  What  a  beast 
he  was  ! — And  morbleu  !  what  a  leader !  " 

"  Well,  now,  seems  to  me,"  says  Townes,  "  them  things 
don't  pay.  Is  scars  all  you  get  in  the  wars,  Captain 
Ralph  ?  » 

"  No,  I'm  indifferent  rich." 

"  Really,  now." 

"  Yes." 

"  How  did  you  get  the  pistoles  together  ?  " 

"  They  were  not  pistoles,  mon  arm — they  were  florins  and 
guilders,"  says  the  Captain,  with  a  strange,  wistful  smile 
which  is  a  pleasant  sight  to  look  upon. 

"  Guilders  ? — I  have  seen  some  of  that  com,"  gays  old 
John  Waters,  cheerfully,  "  come  tell  us,  my  son,  something 
more  of  your  doin's  than  you  have  done." 

The  Captain  pauses  for  a  moment,  and  passes  his  hand 
over  his  eyes  dreamily :  then  he  raises  his  fine  head,  and 
says,  manfully  : 

"  Very  well,  bon  p£re :  ten  words,  more  or  less,  will  do 
that.  You  know  that  when  I  was  eighteen,  and  had  an  in 
different  smooth  face,  I  ran  away — half  with  your  knowledge, 
half  without—" 

"  You  were  not  a  bad  son,"  says  the  old  man,  pleasantly. 

"  No,  I  believe  not.  Well,  I  got  to  Europe,  found  that 
I  must  starve  or  enlist,  and  having  a  natural  turn  for  eating 
heartily,  and  an  intense  aversion  to  starving,  at  once  accepted 
his  gracious  and  serene  majesty's  shilling.  We  were  shipped 
at  once  to  the  Continent,  and  under  the  Great  Frederic,  the 
Protestant  champion,  as  we  called  him,  fought  like  a  parcel 
of  honest  English  dogs,  every  time  we  could  meet  with  the 
mounseers,  who  were  equally  the  enemies  of  Prussia  and 
England. 

"  Very  well,  I  knocked  about — got  a  wound  at  Rosbach, 
also  my  Captaincy — had  a  public  compliment  paid  me  after 
Lissa — a  devil  of  a  fight,  comrade  ! — and  at  Glatz  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  taken  prisoner,  as  I  was  about  to  run  my 
hanger  through  a  fellow  all  bedizened  with  lace — a  Colonel, 
at  the  very  least.  I  mention  the  great  pitched  battles — the 
skirmishes,  countermarches,  night-encounters,  here,  there, 
every  where,  are  understood.  Well,  I  was  taken  after  Glats 
— Glats  was  in  '59,  mark  you — to  a  little  town  in  the  int«- 


328  TWO    SCENES   ON   A    WINTER   NIGHT. 

rior,  where  a  fort  was  held  by  the  troops  of  his  Gracious 
Majesty,  the  King  of  France — in  the  Rhine-land.  There  I 
became  no  longer  a  bachelor." 

With  which  words,  the  wistful  expression  again  passed 
over  the  soldier's  face. 

"  She  was  a  soft,  bright-eyed  girl — I  don't  know  how  1 
ever  came  to  love  her,"  he  murmured;  "  she  was  a  good  wife 
to  me,  and  having  sold  my  commission  at  her  earnest  request, 
I  lived  in  that  little  town  for  two  whole  years — or  there 
abouts.  She  was  a  tender  heart — my  poor  Katrina." 

And  the  Captain  frowns,  to  conceal  his  emotion. 

"  Married,  my  son — you  ain't  a-tellin'  me  you  were  mar 
ried  ?  "  says  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  says  the  soldier,  raising  his  martial  face 
with  a  sigh.  "  I  married  and  lost  my  wife — all  within  two 
short  years." 

There  is  a  silence. 

"  Poor  thing :  she  loved  me  devotedly,  and  left  her  whole 
fortune  to  me.  What  did  I  want  with  it,  when  she  was 
gone  ? — well,  well,  the  money  amounted  to  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  thousand  pounds  English  coin,  and  that  is  what  I 
have." 

"  Twenty  thousand  pounds  1 "  ejaculates  Townes,  with 
astonishment. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  adds  the  soldier,  "  but  in  spite  of  the  fine 
fortune — a  great  fortune  for  a  poor  soldier,  her  death  nearly 
unmanned  me  !  She  was  a  good  girl !  " 

And  with  dreamy  eyes  the  Captain  twirls  his  moustache, 
and  sighs.  His  auditors  are  silent. 

"  After  that,"  he  continues,  "  I  found  myself  no  longer 
fit  for  peace — the  void  in  my  heart,  friends,  called  for  war. 
How  could  I  live  there,  looking  on  all  those  objects  she  had 
looked  at  with  me  ?  No,  no  !  I  could  not,  and  I  buckled  on 
my  sword  again.  Ah,  man  ami  !  ah,  bon  pere !  vous  ne 
tavez — bah  I  English  is  the  best  1  Well,  well !  I  went  back 
again  to  the  camp,  did  my  duty,  they  said — got  some  more 
wounds — and  slowly  my  good  spirits  came  back  to  me  1 — She 
was  a  good  wife ! — she  is  in  heaven  ! — " 

"  And  you  came  away  when  the  war  ended,  Captain  ?  " 
•ays  Townes,  "  for  I  hearn  tell  somethin'  'bout  the  pea««  o 
Fontybulll" 


SWO    S.ilNES    ON    A    WINTER    NIOHT.  32ft 

"  F  >ntainbleau,  man  ami — yes,  I  threw  up  my  commis- 
then — turned  my  back  on  camps,  and  as  my  heart 
began  to  grow  strong  again,  it  turned  toward  old  Virginia 
here.  I  got  into  the  first  ship,  leaving  my  gold  in  London 
there — and  came  over.  The  sea  voyage  set  me  up  again — 
that,  with  the  fighting,  and  here  I  am  as  fresh  and  hearty  as 
a  lion." 

With  which  words  the  Captain  looks  with  great  affection 
at  old  Waters,  and  seeing  that  Lanky  is  nodding,  stirs  that 
gentleman  up  with  his  foot.  Lanky  starts  and  looks  around 
in  utter  and  profound  astonishment — at  which  comical  ex 
pression  the  boatman  laughs,  and  Captain  Ralph  goes  on 
with  his  adventures. 

Let  us  now  pass  through  the  door  directly  in  the  rear  of 
the  astonished  Lanky,  and  look  around  us.  The  apartment 
is  wholly  different  from  the  one  which  we  have  just  left :  it 
is  smaller  and  neater.  The  fireplace  is  surmounted  by  a 
tall  mantel-piece,  upon  which  are  ranged  a  number  of  old 
volumes,  and  in  the  recess  to  the  right,  some  neatly-con 
structed  shelves  are  covered  with  more  books,  and  a  great 
number  of  papers — chiefly  old  copies  of  the  "  Virginia  Ga 
zette."  Immediately  beneath  this  bookcase,  if  we  may  call 
it  such,  stands  a  small  table  covered  with  sheets  of  paper, 
some  of  which  have  been  written  upon,  while  others  contain 
geometrical  diagrams.  A  little  window,  with  very  small 
panes  of  thick,  bluish  glass,  opens  on  the  river,  sleeping  in 
the  chill  winter  moon.  In  one  corner  of  the  room,  a  low 
narrow  bed  is  seen — in  the  corner  opposite,  a  partition  juts 
out,  indicating  that  a  narrow  staircase  leads  from  without, 
to  the  two  small  rooms  above. 

Before  the  fire,  which  sings  and  murmurs  cheerfully,  are 
seated  Charles  Waters,  and  on  another,  but  lower  chair, 
Beatrice.  He  is  very  pale,  and  his  cheeks  are  thinner  than 
their  wont ;  but  his  clear  eye  is  as  full  as  ever  of  frank  truth ; 
his  sad  smile  as  sweet. 

Beatrice  is  radiant  with  that  tender  and  childlike  beauty 
which  characterizes  her ;  and  as  she  sews  and  talks  in  a  low 
tone,  when  he  is  not  reading  to  her,  she  raises  her  large 
melting  eyes  to  his  face,  with  a  look  exquisitely  soft  »iid  Ipy- 
ing.  Both  are  clad  very  simply. 


330  TWO    SCENES   ON    A   WINTER    NIGHT. 

There  is  for  a  time  silence  in  the  small  cheerful  room, 
which,  with  its  homespun  carpet,  and  rude  shelves  and  ruder 
rafters,  is  yet  extremely  neat  and  cheerful,  and  home-like. 
The  voices  of  the  interlocutors  in  the  next  room  come  to 
them  indistinctly. 

The  words,  "  She  was  a  good  wife  ! "  however,  are  heard 
plainly :  and  Beatrice  raises  her  tender  eyes. 

He  smiles  faintly. 

"  Ralph  is  telling  some  of  his  adventures,"  he  says, 
"  but  they  cannot  be  more  singular  than  those  which  we 
have  passed  through." 

And  his  eye  dwells  with  great  tenderness  on  the  gentle, 
girlish  face. 

"  Oh  !  how  strange — yes,  how  very  strange  !  " — she  mur 
murs,  gazing  into  the  fire  :  "  it  seems  to  me  almost  like  a 
dream." 

"  It  is  a  bright  reality,  which  has  restored  you  to  us," 
he  replies,  taking  the  little  hand. 

«  Yes— yes." 

And  her  head  droops,  quietly.  The  round  rosy  neck  is 
half  illuminated,  half  shadowed,  hjf  the  fitful  firelight ;  and 
the  curls  seem  to  nestle  closer :  the  face  is  plain,  and  a  dewy 
glance  trembles  from  the  eyes. 

"  After  so  many  wanderings,  so  many  singular  experi 
ences,  such  rude  contact  with  the  world,  and  all  sorts  of 
people — ah !  to  see  you  here  at  last,  it  is  strange  indeed." 

"  Yes — yes — but  he  was  very  kind  to  me  :  "  she  mur 
murs. 

"  He  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  and  loved  you,  Beatrice  : 
I  do  not  know  whether  he  made  any  exertion  or  not  to  find 
us  and  restore  you — and  I  do  not  attach  very  great  blame 
to  him.  Ah !  had  I  found  you,  I  should  have  hesitated  long 
before  parting  with  you." 

And  the  thin  hand  plays  gently  with  her  own. 

"  He  was  very  kind  to  me,"  she  repeats,  in  a  low 
tone,  "  and  that  last  interview  with  him  in  this  room  was 
very  trying.  You  remember,  Charles,  how  bitterly  he  com 
plained,  at  first,  that  I  would  not  return  to  Europe  with 
him—" 

"  You  could  not." 

"  No,  I  could  uot  1  and  yet  I  felt  very  deeply  the  sepa- 


TWO    SCENES   CTN    A    WINTER    NIGHT.  33  \ 

ration  :  I  told  him  so,  you  know,  and  thanked  him  for  all 
his  fondness  and  kindness,  to  poor  Beatrice  Hallam,  his 
daughter  for  so  long : — and  so  you  know  he  relented,  and 
shed  some  tears,  and  took  me  in  his  arms,  and  said  he  did  not 
blame  me — that  I  was  right — that  blood  was  the  strongest, 
after  all : — and  so  he  blessed  me  and  kissed  me,  and  now 
he  is  far  away  on  the  sea,  sailing  for  the  old  world." 

With  which  words  Beatrice  droops  lower,  her  hair  covers 
her  face,  she  weeps  in  silence. 

He  looks  at  her  with  inexpressible  affection,  and  caresses 
with  his  pale  hand  the  tender  head.  She  raises  her  face, 
and  he  sees  the  tears. 

"  Weeping,  dear  !  "  he  says. 

"  I  cannot  help  crying  a  little,  thinking  of  him,"  she 
murmurs. 

"  But,  they  are  not  bitter  tears." 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  You  do  not  regret  your  determination  ?  " 

«  Oh,  no— no  !  " 

And  she  looks  at  him  with  so  much  love,  that  his  heart 
throbs,  and  his  pale  cheek  is  for  a  moment  reddened,  as  if 
the  flush  of  some  golden  autumn  sunset  bathed  it. 

"  You  do  not  complain  of  having  to  leave  all  that  bril 
liant  life  ?  "  he  says. 

"  I  thank  G-OO!,  that  I  was  permitted  to  abandon  it." 

"  For  our  poor  house,  here — ah,  it  is  very  poor." 

"  But  I  have  you — and  uncle — and —  " 

The  weak  voice  gives  way. 

"  And  we  have  you — "  he  murmurs,  holding  out  his 
arms  with  an  expression  of  pride  and  joy,  which  illuminates 
his  countenance  like  a  glory. 

In  a  moment  she  is  in  his  arms — pressed  to  his  breast, 
sobbing  and  weeping,  and  nestling  close  to  his  bosom.  She 
will  be  his  dear  wife,  she  says — she  has  promised  that  she 
will  forgjt  all  for  him  in  future — never  grieve — she  is  not 
grieving  now,  her  tears  are  tears  of  joy,  she  feels  that  God 
has  been  very  good  to  her,  and  she  is  happy. 

And  the  red  firelight  lingers  lovingly  upon  them,  heart 
to  heart,  cheek  pressed  to  cheek  :  the  moonlight  struggles 
to  come  in  and  share  their  joy  : — the  room  is  still  and  holy. 
And  from  the  adjoining  room,  come  cheerful  voices  soon, 


332  TWO    SCENES    ON   A    WINTER    NIGHT. 

and  merry  laughter,  and  the  loud  camp-expletives  of  Cap 
tain  Ralph.  Then  the  voices  moderate,  the  soldier's  tone 
is  lower,  he  has  gone  back  to  his  happy  days  :  and  as  they 
listen,  the  gentle  head  resting  confidingly  on  his  bosom,  thoM 
low  words  are  heard  again,  and  echo  in  their  hearts : 
"  Yes,  comrade — a  good  wife  I  " 


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